


Vilomah

by Moe64



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Pre-New 52, Tim Drake is Red Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22207630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moe64/pseuds/Moe64
Summary: Thomas and Martha Wayne lost their son Bruce in the back street behind a theater in Park Row, a seedy neighborhood in Gotham now known as Crime Alley. Years later two boys show up and claim to be the adopted children of their long dead son and, well, let's just say stranger things haveneverhappened.ORTim and Jason accidentally stumble into a universe where Bruce Wayne died and Thomas and Martha lived.
Relationships: Martha Wayne/Thomas Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 289
Kudos: 1272





	1. The Prevue

**Author's Note:**

> Story takes place pre-n52.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters that appear in this story. I am borrowing them from DC for the purpose of entertainment, and I will return them with as little emotional damage as I can. I promise.

No one ever calls the house phone. It’s an unlisted number, rarely given out to friends or family. Certainly not passed around to reporters or any of the hordes of Gotham elites who claim to have it. Its use has fallen out in perfect synchrony with the rise of the cell phone, but every time Alfred Pennyworth thinks of cancelling the nearly archaic device, a strange twist in his stomach pulls him back. Maybe it's nostalgia, but the Manor has changed very little since Alfred came into the Wayne's employ so many years earlier; the house was filled with nostalgia and an unused landline was of little import. Maybe it is laziness, though Alfred Pennyworth, described as many things in his life, has _never_ been described as lazy. 

Maybe it's the deeply buried memory of a horrible night so many years ago when that very landline rung in the middle of night with sounds of sirens and the heavy downpour of rain in the background and the hesitant voice of a young detective on his first day of what would become an illustrious career told Alfred Pennyworth the worst news of his life. 

Maybe that’s why, when the landline begins its incessant ringing a short while after three am, Alfred Pennyworth stirs to consciousness with a foreboding feeling already growing in his stomach. 

He rushes into the kitchen, picking up the phone on the last ring, just when the person on the end had all but given up hope. 

“Wayne Manor,” Alfred answers like this is a perfectly acceptable time to be calling. 

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” the voice on the other end of the phone sounds like she would rather not be making this call. “Is Mr. Wayne there?” 

“He’s not in right now, what is this about?” he asks, voice harsh and brittle. 

The woman is hesitating. “It’s about his sons sir,” the woman says this like it’s a question. 

Alfred stills. “His son?” he repeats. 

“Both of them sir,” the woman confirms. “They were hurt in some sort of explosion. The younger one gave us your number. He seems stable. They had to rush the older one into surgery." The woman sucks in a breath. "It would be best if you could get down to the hospital as quickly as possible.” 

“The hospital,” Alfred repeats slowly. 

“Gotham Medical,” the woman says. Alfred's stony composure hardens into iron. “I have to go, sir. The doctors there will have more information. I’m . . . I’m sorry sir,” she sighs, and the land line goes dead. 

“Alfie?” A voice as tired as Alfred feels sounds from behind the older man and he turns to see a woman, ragged with age and fitful sleepless nights standing in the kitchen behind him. She flicks on the lights and despite the late hour, she appears alert, flecks of deep blue in her eyes, sharp and curious. She manages, despite her weariness, to hold a sort of prestige and respect, draped in her silk night gown, hair pinned back in a loose braid. 

“Who was that on the phone, Alfred?” the woman asks, her voice full of concern. Alfred’s hand tightens around the receiver. 

“It must have been a wrong number,” he lies smoothly, returning the phone to the hook. “Come along now, Martha. Let’s get you back to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is intended to be a sort of introduction to the story. A teaser, if you will. So it's short and isn't chronological with the rest of the story.


	2. The Protégé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier . . .

The room is filled with idle chatter, plastic smiles, and the subtle linger of cigar smoke that has long settled into the natural fibers of Brioni suits worth more than any single donation the Wayne Foundation is likely to collect that night. It’s an odd mixture of socialites and workmen, differentiated not only by the price tags on their dress clothes but also by the odd clusters scattered about the ballroom each group socializing exclusively with their own. 

Tim Drake-Wayne swishes champagne about in his flute glass before dumping the last of its contents into his mouth, ignoring the wary glances of three young executives Tim has finally successfully extracted himself from conversing with only moments earlier. 

He stares at the empty cup remorsefully. He’d been sipping on the champagne all night, his one drink limit set by Bruce ( _You’re seventeen, Tim_ ) turning into less of a privilege and more of a battle of wills. Tim spent the night fighting to keep his face impassive whenever the older man glanced over with his raised eyebrow and grim expression, and now that his glass is empty, Tim has to face the truth: this entire evening has been a complete waste. 

Tim was _trying_ to multitask. He had far too many things on his To-Do List and far too little time for him to do something outrageous like complete each task individually. So Tim flittered in and out of the cliques of executives, VPs, and board members, even lingering to talk with the Wayne Enterprise scientists who bothered to show up, whether it be from sheer curiosity about how _Those Waynes_ lived, or to try to steal a moment with someone who had enough influence to fund a vanity project. Tim thanked them all the same for coming. He took the panic ramblings of lower level employees and the insincere gratitude of the executives with the same plastic smile, known only to those who knew him best to be disingenuous, and found enough excuses to last four hours at one of the more mundane charity galas Tim has ever had the misfortune of attending, before finally admitting to himself that Jacob Sorenson was not going to show up. 

If Tim is being honest with himself, it had been a long shot to begin with. Sorenson isn’t quite wealthy enough to waste his Thursday night doing nothing more than gossiping with Gotham elite and dropping $60 a plate on the same quality of food Tim could find on South Street for quarter of the price. The only thing that had truly been enticing was the open bar, which wasn’t helping Tim and his one glass limit, but Tim had been holding out a distant hope that free booze and the flattery of being invited _as if_ Sorenson was in the same class as the other Gotham elite in the room would bring the rat out of whatever hole he was hiding in so Tim could plant a listening device on him and finally, _finally_ close the month old fraud case that has been wasting away at the bottom of Tim’s case files. 

He should call it a night. He has long since fulfilled any Tim Wayne obligations and staying longer isn’t going to win him any more brownie points with Lucius, considering he has a board meeting tomorrow – or today – at 7 AM. Staying longer might actually get Tim in _more_ trouble with the man, especially if Tim shows up on three hours of sleep and is caught discretely crushing caffeine pills into his coffee. . . _again._ Although Tim is still adamant that particular fiasco was absolutely not his fault and if Tam wanted to file an official complaint, she could fax it to San Francisco or complain directly to Wonder Girl, thank you very much. 

But that excuse wasn’t going to work this time, and now as the night wanes into morning, Tim seriously considers skipping patrol altogether and getting at least a few hours of sleep. _That’s_ how pissed Tam had been about the caffeine pills. 

Just as Tim sets his empty flute glass down on the nearest table and glances around the room, wondering if he should let Bruce know he’s leaving, knowing the older man will likely insist on staying because he has some compulsion to make everyone think he actually enjoys these parties, Tim’s phone buzzes. 

If it was the Blackberry in Tim’s breast pocket, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought, assuming it was an e-mail or a text that could easily be put off until morning – or at least later in the morning. But it’s the cell Tim has strapped to his ankle, the one Tim always keeps on him, even if he forgets the Blackberry on every horizontal surface he places the thing on, whether on purpose or by accident, Tam can never be sure. 

No Bruce in sight, but if it’s an emergency, he will have gotten a message and begun extracting himself from whatever mundane conversation he’s gotten himself trapped in. Tim can’t worry about that now. He slips out into the main hall of the museum’s convention center and grabs the flip phone in one fluid movement, racing toward the exit. So much for skipping patrol tonight. It could be an Arkham breakout, but the gallery has a policy to close for city wide emergences and Tim hasn’t heard or seen anything from the staff – 

Tim stops dead when he sees an unknown number flashing on the screen. Everyone is programed into Tim’s phone in code and the chances of this being a wrong number are laughable. Tim continues in sporadic hesitant steps as he flips open the phone, reading over the two words written on the screen half a dozen times before pushing open the museum doors and getting hit with the cool morning air. 

_Side Alley._

There’s really only one thing the unidentified number and the cryptic demand could possibly mean. The museum parking lot wraps around three sides of the building and the warehouse storing the museum’s temporary exhibits is a separate structure with heightened security about 100 feet from the main building. Tim wouldn’t exactly call the strip of asphalt and concrete between the buildings an _alley,_ but he decides not to press the point as he rounds to the north side of the museum. 

Maybe it’s sleep deprivation or boredom or left-over frustration at the utter uselessness of the evening. Maybe it’s the fact that Tim _really_ doesn’t want to go to his board meeting in six hours, but he snaps his phone shut and slips it back into his ankle holder, only sparing the most cursory glance around the lot to make sure no one is watching, before slipping unnoticed into the alleyway and confidently strolling into the darkness. 

“I thought you were on vacation,” Tim says casually, as if he isn’t talking to discarded palates and empty dumpsters. Tim stops short before being engulfed into complete darkness. He isn’t suicidally bored. Only moderately. 

“I’ll rest when I’m dead. . . _again,_ ” a familiar voice drawls back and despite Tim still tensing in fear every time he hears that particular lower Gotham inflection, a grin spread across the younger boy’s face. 

Jason Todd emerges from the darkness like it’s the most casual thing. Tim knows he should wipe the smile off his face. Knows Jason will be off-put and suspicious of the absolute excitement radiating from the younger boy. But all Tim can think about is the look on Tamara Fox’s face tomorrow morning – or later today, whatever – as Tim chugs a full cup of scalding hot coffee and suggests she file her grievances with his moderately homicidal, former mob boss, once dead brother. 

There are questions Tim should be asking. What Jason was doing back in Gotham being at the top of that list but given the older boy’s deflection, Tim isn’t sure he’ll get a straight answer. Tim could ask what the message was about, but he’s sure to figure that out soon enough, he just needs to be patient. He could ask what Jason has been doing in the four weeks since Tim saw him in New York, the pair only meeting briefly to exchange information and casual insults the past six months of an uneasy truce have transformed into something close to banter. But Tim figures that would be a waste of breath. As casual as it has become to get a call from a blocked number or an unknown text, Tim and Jason haven’t breached that seemingly impenetrable wall that would let Tim ask anything remotely personal. And honestly, Tim isn’t sure he wants to change that. 

“Are you drunk, Replacement?” Jason asks, voice slightly incredulous, but with just enough anger that Tim knows whatever brought Jason into this seedy back alley – okay, maybe Tim is open to calling the area an alley, there really is no better description – it’s serious. The grin falls off Tim’s face. 

“Jason, what’s wrong?” Tim asks, his voice now tight and somber enough that Jason releases some of the tension that had built up in his shoulders. Jason dons his typical Red Hood gear, except the actual red hood, which is tucked beneath his arm and replaced by a simple black domino mask. It’s something Tim is thankful for, making it easier to read the tense undertones of speech and the subtle clench of Jason’s jaw. The tablet Jason grasps in his other hand turns his knuckles white under a grip that is entirely too tight, making the red scabs glisten in the moonlight with fresh blood. 

Jason let’s out a ragged sigh that turns into a rough laugh. 

“Mark this day on your goddamn calendar, Timbers. I need your help.”


	3. The Provenance

If life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, Jason has had to listen to some idiot slog through his miserable existence four times now, and he’s getting a little tired of the repetition. 

He was _supposed_ to be on vacation. He’d joked last week with Tim, after updating him about the stolen box of LexCorp prototypes that had started this whole mess, that if sleep really is for the dead, he was backlogged. 

Tim kept pretty detailed reports of what Lex Luthor was working on and developing, but he hadn’t known about the crate of quantum entanglers that Jason had spent the last month chasing down, only to track them to a shady port in southern Russia. A firefight ensued, there had definitely been more than one explosion, but he secured the box of entangler prototypes and even saved a few innocent dock workers for good measure. Your typical Tuesday afternoon. 

A month straight of bouncing from dead end to dead end only to wind up in the middle of a typical get rich quick Russian Mafia scheme resulting in a bullet sized bruise on his thigh and a knife embedded in the fleshy part of his forearm. 

But, really, Jason should have known better. 

Something just wasn’t _right_. In retrospect, he figures this is just another thing he can blame on Batman. The prickle on the nape of his neck and faint feeling of unease bubbling in back of his mind byproducts of years of Robin training and indoctrinated paranoia. And it still would have been so easy to ignore. Taken the week vacation he jokingly mentioned, but had also been sort of serious about, and just forgotten about the strange packing pattern of the box, writing off the loose space in the shipping crate as a LexCorp employee’s lazy work ethic. 

And it would have been so easy. 

But no. Bruce was a fricking sociopath and unfortunately Jason had spent enough time around him that some of his more obsessive compulsions had rubbed off. 

And the worst part? He was right. 

No, the worst part was definitely the missing teleportation gun. 

Jason _hates_ teleporters. 

It’s less of a calculated, carefully analyzed distrust towards the extent of their abilities and more of a gut reaction, a firing of panicked synapses in his brain screaming _‘Stay the hell away from that shit!'_

What the _frack_ was a prototype handheld teleporter doing with quantum entanglers? Unless the teleportation device was the real cargo, and the quantum entanglers just a red herring? There were too many questions, too few answers. 

Which only comes to the next thing Jason hates. Asking for help. 

All the same, here he was, in the back alley behind some swanky event meeting with the miniature version of Brucie Wayne, driven there only by a desperation that has been slowly growing in him since Jason first saw Jack Eberle shoot himself with his own gun and disappear right in front of Jason’s eyes. 

Goddamn teleporters. 

“What do you need?” Tim asks and it just _figures_. Of course, he was willing to help. Of course, he was grinning like a goddamn idiot when Jason texted him, probably plotting all the ways he was going to lord this favor over Jason’s head forever, or worse, insist that Jason didn’t need to pay him back because _that’s just what family does._

Jason grinds his teeth, spitting the words out. “I need your help tracking a piece of tech in the city.” 

Tim studies him warily and then raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” his voice is carefully neutral. “I’m going to need more information, but I’ll only agree to help in exchange for information I think your contact in Turkey is . . . _in possession_ of.” 

Jason blinks in surprise. He doesn’t even want to know how Tim knows she’s in Turkey, but there is something exceptionally vague about the way Tim phrases the request that makes questions spring to Jason’s tongue unbiddenly. He swallows hard, burying his curiosity back into the pit in his stomach. 

He studies Tim’s carefully neutral face with narrowing eyes, knowing what the younger boy is doing. It’s strange, that they’ve worked together so often Jason can now pick up on the slight tension still pulling at Tim’s lips, the only evidence of emotion in his otherwise perfectly schooled blank expression. 

The exchange puts Jason at ease, and it’s meant to. Whether Tim had the request in his back pocket, or had just made it up on the spot, he noticed Jason’s discomfort, the tightening of his shoulders and quickly chilling tone, and he was letting Jason stay in his comfort zone, not trying to push boundaries or attach unwanted strings. 

The anger deflates from Jason chest with a single breath and for a moment, Jason almost wants to laugh. There’s a reason Tim is the only Bat that he can hold a conversation with without it spiraling into a screaming match. 

“Define in possession of?” Jason says finally, mind snagging on Tim’s knowing smirk now, unable to let this slide. 

Tim holds up his hands. “I get to ask a question, if she doesn’t know the answer, that’s still an answer enough for me.” 

Curiosity burns in Jason’s stomach but pushing Tim on something he doesn’t want to talk about is about as pointless as pushing Jason. “What if she doesn’t want to answer?” 

Now Tim’s smirk has turned into something truly sinister. “That’s an answer too,” he says. 

Jason snorts. “Fine,” he spits out, trying to make his voice sound harsh enough to mask the underlying relief. Tim doesn’t seem to buy it and relief of his own flickers across the boy’s features before he masks it once again under an inscrutable expression. 

“I assume you have some way to track this tech, like a signal?” Tim asks, relaxing now and glancing down at the tablet Jason is clutching in his hand, eyes burning with unbridled curiosity. Jason hands it to him, waiving Tim forward to where he stashed the Red Hood cycle. 

“Some sort of teleporter LexCorp is working on. It’s only a prototype but it emits this sort of,” Jason gesture vaguely, “strange energy after its use, so this is time sensitive, Timmers.” 

Jason hears Tim’s footfalls behind him, but the kid still protests. “Now?” he asks, his voice only mildly curious. “You want me to wander around abandoned warehouses with you in a suit and tie?” 

“I didn’t pick out your outfit for the evening. Maybe let this serve as a lesson: never attend Wayne family events without a back-up domino mask and some Kevlar.” Jason tosses him the spare helmet he was lucky enough to remember to grab on his way. “Put this on so I’m not arrested for kidnapping again. We have to go to my safe house anyways, I have a computer that can crunch this data quicker.” 

Tim catches the helmet without looking up from the tablet. “What are these reading here?” he asks and Jason peers over to the fluctuating numbers Tim is pointing out in the lower left corner. 

“Ah, well when the space time continuum – “ 

“You could have just said you didn’t know,” Tim cuts him off, pulling the helmet on over his face and climbing on the back of Jason’s motorcycle. It’s an oddly trusting thing for him to do, giving Jason another moment pause and the older boy wonders if he’ll ever puzzle out why Tim allows himself to be so open around him. 

“Replacement, if I understood any of that crap, I wouldn’t need your help,” Jason snorts. 

“And here I thought you were just coming around for my sparkling personality,” Jason rolls his eyes at Tim’s retort before revving the engine and drowning out any further conversation. 

When they get to Jason’s safe house Tim plugs the tablet into Jason’s laptop and gets right to work, studying the figures on the screen, his frown only deepening with each passing minute. 

“You said this device was a teleporter?” Tim asks, typing a string of commands that flash across the screen too quickly for Jason to read. 

“Well yeah, guy shoots himself with this gun looking thing and disappears, only to reappear somewhere else. Teleportation.” Jason says slowly like Tim is senile. Tim just rolls his eyes, a frown still playing on his lips. Jason continues now, less sure. “It was in that shipment of quantum entanglers. From LexCorp,” he reveals. 

Tim hums noncommittally. 

“The quantum connection makes more sense now and would explain the entanglers.” Tim explains after a beat of silence. A frown still plays on his lips. “This device might have a similar mechanism. I wonder if that is what this is reading . . .” Tim mumbles to himself now. “Must have some magic component or . . . no, that doesn’t make sense. These readings . . .” 

“Time limit, Replacement,” Jason says when Tim’s mumblings get too quiet for him to hear. 

“What’s usually the time frame before the readings fall below observable levels?” he asks. 

“Less than a day,” Jason says. “We’re in hour eighteen.” 

Tim shoots his head up at that. “Eighteen?” he repeats, as if he’s hoping Jason will correct himself. Tension grows in Jason’s back as he gets defensive. 

“I haven’t been twiddling my damn thumbs. It’s no piece of cake narrowing the readings down to one city,” he snaps back. “I had to bounce it off the satellites. I just need a more exact tracker so I can actually find this bastard before he uses the device again.” 

Tim has already moved on, accepting the information easily. “Any cooling off time needed for the device?” 

Jason growls and shakes his head. “But we’ll know if he uses it again,” he says nodding to the tablet. 

“The readings will spike,” Tim agrees. He nods and turns back to the computer. “Give me an hour and I should be able to give us a good radius to search in.” 

“Me,” Jason corrects. Tim glances at him in confusion. 

“Should give _me_ a good radius to search in. You aren’t coming in the field, Timbuktu,” Jason elaborates flatly. Tim’s face hardens. 

“Yes I am. The energy output from the device is deteriorating which means I’ll have to manually alter the code as we go. I don’t have time to collect enough data to figure out the rate of depreciation and you can’t adjust the tracker _and_ search for this guy. I’m coming.” 

Jason narrows his eyes. “Hell no,” he snaps back. “Aren’t you the one who didn’t want to wander around dusty warehouses in your designer suit?” 

Tim has the gall to roll his eyes. “I’m sure you have a spare domino and maybe a sweatshirt somewhere around this place. I’ll hang back when we find the guy, I’m not an idiot, Jason.” 

“Debatable,” Jason snaps but . . . it really isn’t. Tim’s right. Maybe if Jason had more time, he could try to understand how to update the tracker to match the energy signal, but that was the whole problem. There wasn’t time. 

The victorious grin on Tim’s face says he can read Jason’s expression and knows the older boy has changed his mind. 

“Frickity Frack,” Jason mutters. “If you get killed, I get to bring you back and kill you again for being an idiot.” 

Tim smirks. “Deal,” he says. 

Tim interrogates him a bit more. Well, it’s less of an interrogation and more of Tim innocently asking questions and Jason snapping half-answers back at him. Tim doesn’t complain, instead giving all of Jason’s answers the same thoughtful _hum._

Jason grabs Tim a black sweatshirt that he can pull on but any spare pants he keeps would dwarf Tim’s slight frame. Even the sweatshirt looks far too big on the younger boy and he has to roll up the sleeves in order to type. Jason gives him a spare domino mask and it’s not a bad impromptu vigilante outfit, though the lack of any sort of Kevlar still makes Jason’s skin crawl. 

It takes Tim less than the hour he insisted on to finish writing a program to track whatever energy the device was emitting, an energy which seems to make Tim particularly uncomfortable, even after Jason promises he can analyze the data and the device once they actually _get it back._

The two finally leave forty minutes after arriving at the safehouse, Tim in a black sweatshirt, red domino mask, and swanky pressed dress pants, looking like a randomized sim, and Jason outfitted entirely in his Red Hood gear. He loads most of his guns with rubber bullets, right in front of Tim to put the younger boy at ease but keeps the gun strapped to his thigh filled with lead. He’s sure Tim knows, but the boy only gives a slight hesitation, eyes flickering to the gun, before climbing on the back of Hood’s motorcycle and giving terse directions. 

“Turn next right,” Tim snaps abruptly and Jason swings down an empty one-way street in the Bowery. In a lower voice, Tim mutters, “slow down.” Jason obliges. 

Tim types furiously behind him, making Jason slow even more, suddenly worried the kid is going to fall off the back of his bike and wouldn’t that be an embarrassing thing to have to explain to Bruce. 

“Red, should I pull off?” Jason asks when the younger boy falls silent. He’s still muttering into Jason’s back about strange radiation. He needs to let this go. 

“What the hell was Lex messing around with?” Tim asks out loud this time and Jason grips the handles of his bike tighter, trying to ignore the churn of irritation growing in the pit of his stomach. 

“Red,” Jason eventually snaps. He feels Tim tense behind him. “Focus.” 

“Sorry,” Tim mutters and he actually manages to sound a little apologetic. “Two hundred feet,” he says. 

Jason pulls off immediately and swings off the bike. Tim glances up from the tablet, eyebrow raised in a question. 

“Stay here,” Jason growls and he can _feel_ the replacement rolling his eyes, but Tim doesn’t argue. Jason gives a grunt of satisfaction before slipping forward, clinging to the shadows between the buildings. 

It is disappointingly easy to find him. 

Weeks. _Weeks_ Jason has spent tracking this dumbass down and he not only comes to Gotham but decides to take a nap in the first shady vacant building that screams _‘Bad guys hide here.’_

Jason rubs his thumb over the gun strapped to his thigh like it’s a lifeline. He needs the cool metal as a reminder, even if he agrees, at least while operating in Gotham, to use rubber bullets. Tim never pushes him on the fact that he still keeps the real bullets on him even when the two operate together in the city. He’s probably the only one. On the rare occasion he runs into any other member of their so-called family, Jason needs the gun between them like a viper. Needs the unease and the tension that fills the air, and revels in the reaction whenever his fingers brush the handle. 

Jason’s not sure if Tim trusts him or just doesn’t care. One makes him stupid, the other makes him suicidal. It wasn’t long ago when Jason would have easily turned his gun on the younger boy and while that particular urge has been mostly drained out of him, Jason still isn’t quite sure how Tim can just let it go. 

Jason pulls out the gun on his hip filled with rubber bullets. 

The man freezes as soon as Jason slips into the partially constructed housing unit, avoiding scattered rebar and overturned paint cans so as to not make a sound. The floor is dusted with stray insulation, bent nails, and broken bottles. Eberle tenses suddenly, hearing Jason’s silent approach and Jason dives to the side just as the man spins and fires a blue light – the teleportation gun, Jason realizes spitefully – into the wall behind him. 

_Idiot,_ Jason thinks just before the wall explodes. 

Jason’s momentum plus the force of the blast sends him skidding into the side wall with a dull _thud._

He grunts, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing the gun he must have dropped after the impact of the blast. He spots Eberle pushing himself up and glancing around frantically for the teleporter. 

"Now, Jackie," Jason says, spotting the teleporter. It’s closer to Eberle. "Can I call you Jackie?" He won’t win in a foot race, so he fires the gun, hitting Eberle twice in his chest and knocking him back. "I'm not one to throw stones at glass houses," Jason scrambles over to the gun. He sees movement out of the corner of his eye as Eberle struggles up and pushes himself forward. Determined bastard. 

"But stealing from Lex Luthor? Not the best career move, buddy." Jason shoots at him again, but Eberle is more prepared this time, snarling and pulling something out of his waist band – _shit._ Jason changes his path as Eberle sends a volley of bullets into the area Jason was about to run into. He recovers quickly, spraying rubber bullets in Eberle’s direction as the man rushes forward. Jason aims a shot at Eberle’s wrist, and the gun goes flying from his hand just as he comes into arms reach of the teleporter. 

At the same time, Jason dives for the teleportation gun, shooting under his outstretched arm. Eberle’s body slams into him just as Jason’s hand closes around the teleporter. 

Jason lets out a low grunt as Eberle’s weight slams into him in the same instant, the sudden change of direction making the teleporter fly from his grip and skid towards the blown-out wall. 

Jason recovers quickly but hearing movement behind him makes him dive out of the way again, bullets whiz in his direction. Okay, he’s starting to get pissed. 

Jason twists mid-leap and empties the rest of the clip into Eberle’s chests, making the man fly backwards with a definite thud. 

“Goddamn teleporters,” Jason mutters, eyeing Eberle’s still form. 

There’s a strange mechanical whirl growing louder. 

Jason spins toward the exploded wall and something in the shadows catches his eyes for only a moment before they are pulled toward the strange sound. 

The teleportation gun vibrates on the ground, making a distressed noise and producing suspicious plumes of smoke, two bullet holes in the side. 

Freaking teleporters. 

His vision explodes with a blue light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opening line is a reference to reference to Shakespeare's King John, "Life is as tedious as twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man." I always thought Jason would get a kick out of it.


	4. The Pragmatic

Jason awakes to the sound of dry heaving. Which is . . . unpleasant. At least it isn’t him. 

. . . He thinks. 

He is panting though. Had he been running? He’s certainly out of breath and there is an immense pressure on his chest. In his chest? All he knows is it’s hard to breathe. 

“Jay?” The voice sounds weak, confused and hesitant, but it’s a voice Jason recognizes and relief washes through his body. He turns his head, opening his mouth to call out, but it fills with a metallic taste and he coughs raggedly, the pain in his chest pulsing intensely as he does. 

All Jason gets out is a pained groaned. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

When he opens them again, there’s a face in front of his. No, over his. He’s staring at the ceiling. Or what should be a ceiling. It’s caved in and decaying. 

_Did we do that?_ They must have, even though the damage looks old and worn from weather rather than a bomb. 

A bomb? There was an explosion, right? 

The red face above him disappears for a moment and then returns, blue eyes wide with fear. Wait . . . The face isn’t red. Half of it is. And it’s melting. No, dripping. Covered in blood. 

Jason reaches out, his shaky hand stretching toward the figure. “Tim,” he manages weakly. 

Tim grabs his hand and places it gently at Jason’s side. 

“Don’t move,” Tim whispers hoarsely. Of course, that makes Jason try to stand up. A strong arm flies to his chest, pushing him down harshly. 

“J-Jason.” Tim’s voice is unsteady, filled with fear. “Do not move.” 

Jason holds his head still, but his eyes travel downward, towards his torso. He sees the problem immediately. 

A small chuckle turns into a wet cough. 

“Did I hit my head, or have I been shish kabob-ed?” he asks, trying to keep his voice light. Rebar drenched in a dark wine protrudes from his chest, dripping blood back down to his breastplate. Tim tenses at the tremor of fear in Jason’s question. “I suppose the two aren’t mutually exclusive,” he continues. 

“Jay, stop talking.” 

“I’m gonna die again,” Jason muses, closing his eyes. 

“Shut up,” Tim snarls at him. Jason glances over in surprise. 

Tim’s hand brushes the side of Jason’s helmet, pressing a series of buttons that allows him to safely remove the mask. Tim has his own domino discarded and the blood that mats his hair and stains half his face has already covered any trace of it. 

Jason can’t quite remember ever telling Tim how to remove his helmet. He wants to ask the boy about it but when he sucks in a breath to speak, he starts wheezing instead, unable to catch it again. 

“Breathe, Jason. Breathe.” 

_I’m trying,_ Jason wants to snap but he can’t form the words. He squeezes his eyes closed, focusing on the hands – Tim’s hands – that now grip both sides of his face. They are wet with blood. 

“You are not dying,” Tim says. Or does he yell? His voice is wet, that much Jason can tell. His eyes flutter open. Is Tim crying? Jason tries to focus on Tim’s face while the edges of his vision begin to blur. His eyes roll up and he’s either looking at the ceiling or the back of his skull. 

“Jay,” Tim’s voice is sharp. “Stay awake, you’re going into shock.” His voice sounds so small. Jason’s eyes refocus on Tim’s face. He looks so . . . young. Like a kid in a black hoodie scared for his brother. 

“I called the police,” Tim is saying. _When did he do that?_ Jason wonders. He thinks he can hear distant sirens. Then again, this is Gotham. 

Then, panic rushes through Jason. “No . . . hospitals,” Jason wheezes through gasped breaths. 

“Shh, Jason. Don’t talk just focus on breathing.” Jason’s eyes have glazed over again, but fingers snap in his face and Tim’s pale eyes come into focus. “I got off most of your gear,” Tim says. 

“We’ll go to Leslie,” his voice is a forced calm, trying to be soothing but it’s slightly slurred. “You’re going to be okay,” Tim is saying and there is _definitely_ something wrong with him, Jason realizes. He tries to focus on the boy’s face, but it has disappeared again from his vision. 

Jason opens his mouth to call out and the metallic taste in the back of his throat heaves again. 

Lights flash on the ceiling above Jason and he wonders if this is it. He doesn’t remember lights last time, but that was definitely a part of dying, right? Some bright light at the end of a tunnel or something? 

Jason thought it was supposed to be white. These lights are red and blue. 

Tim’s back and a wave of fear washes over him. Is Tim dead too? 

No, this man isn’t Tim. He’s older, with dark hair and black eyes. He’s saying something but Jason doesn’t know what. There is a woman with him too. Two angels? Jason _really_ doesn’t remember this. 

Maybe he did better this time around. 

“You’re going to be okay, son,” the male angel says. 

Jason wants to ask him a question, but he can’t remember what it is. It was important right? 

It’s too late now. Darkness creeps into the corners of his vision. 

“Mary, stabilize his spine,” the angel snaps. He sounds scared. That’s not right. What would make an angel scared? 

A flash of pain darkens Jason’s vision completely and he has a single thought before being cut from consciousness. 

_Tim._

  


* * *

  


Tim can’t stop shaking. He’s covered in blood. Most of it isn’t his blood. _Focus._

The pounding of his head keeps an erratic beat and his vision spins in an entirely different direction. The discord makes him nauseous, but he’s already thrown up anything that’s in his stomach. 

_Focus._

He stashed the device he found near Jack Eberle’s body – his _body_ – _Focus_. He stashed the device he pulled off Eberle’s body, Jason’s armor and all the guns and knives Tim knew about – please god, let him have got them all – _Focus_. He stashed them and his domino mask behind a dumpster in the alley. He can’t risk bringing anything with them. Not with his vision fading in and out like this. 

_Focus._

He repeats the mantra to himself again. It’s become a point of grounding, _Focus. Focus. Focus._

Jason . . . 

_Focus._

Tim watches the paramedics rush around Jason, his blood beginning to stain their clothes the more they work. 

Jason’s blood. . . 

_Focus._

“ – names?” the paramedic in front of Tim is asking him. 

“What?” he asks, his voice sounding distant and slurred. _Dammit, Jay needs you. Focus._

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the colorful lights that dance through his vision, but they only get brighter behind his closed eyes. 

“Can you tell me your names, hun?” the woman asks, her voice soft and she inspects his arm, noting how he hisses in pain when she prods his elbow. 

She doesn’t recognize him. That’s . . . something at least. 

“Tih Wayh,” he slurs. He presses his lips together. “Timothy Drake-Wayne,” he tries to speak slowly annunciating each syllable. 

“Good,” the woman coos. “And your brother?” 

_Brother_? Tim wonders. Now that she says it, he does remember screaming something at a panicked 9-1-1 operator about his brother. 

“Peter,” he has the presence of mind to lie. 

“How old are you both?” she asks, voice condescendingly patient. 

He takes a moment to make sure his tongue is in his mouth still. The white light has become blinding now and he swallows back bile. Okay, maybe she has a point. 

“Seventeen and . . .” he trails off. How old _is_ Jason? Does he count the six months he spent dead? He forces his eyes open to a concerned face in front of him. He definitely can’t ask her that question. 

She misreads his hesitation with a worried pinch of her brow. 

“Twenty,” he finishes. 

She’s nodding. Or his eyes are shaking. The movement makes his vision dance with colors he can’t put names to. What do you call a mix of burgundy and cerulean? 

“Purple,” the woman says. 

Is he talking out loud? No, she’s looking at him expectantly. Did she ask a question? 

“Do you know where you are right now,” she repeats. 

“Gotham,” he spits. Jason drove, and they were looking for something, but Tim can’t remember what. 

“Good,” the woman coos and Tim tries to focus on her face but it is distant compared to the light that gets brighter when he shuts his eyes. He forces his eyes open to search for her, but the dancing lights force him to groan and turn his head. The sudden movement washes him with a new wave of nausea, and he clenches his teeth, almost blacking out from the movement. 

“Stretcher!” the woman yells at him. No, she yells at the footsteps approaching now. 

“Gotham Medical,” he gasps suddenly, panic rushing through him. Adrenaline allows the form in front of him to take shape and he can make out her figure. 

The woman looks at him confused. “We have to go to Gotham Medical,” he manages to say, tongue only stumbling over half the words as he forces them out. 

“Kid, we’re going to the nearest hospital, you don’t get to be picky about it,” a new voice says. When Tim turns his head to find it, his eyes roll back and when he regains his vision, his back is pressed against the floor. 

“Gotham Medical,” he gasps again. This is important for a reason Tim can’t remember. His skull feels like it’s been split open. 

. . . oh yeah. 

There are two men leaning over him now. They might be flashing a light in his eyes, but it blends in with the array of colors already filling his vision. His head is still attached to his body, right? Or has it slid from his neck and is now lying on the ground. He can’t see a headless body standing around anywhere and he thinks that’s a good thing. 

“Damn lucky we came out here to begin with,” a voice mutters. Is it in his head? No, it’s the other man. 

“Wayne . . .” Tim trails off. Why was he talking? “Wayne Enterprises,” he gasps. Oh yeah, that’s why. 

The first man frowns. “What about it,” he asks, and his voice tells Tim he’s just entertaining him. 

“Owns . . .” What is he trying to say? “I – Wayne . . .” God, would someone turn these lights _off_? The man’s grimace says that Tim spoke aloud. “. . . sons,” Tim manages. 

“You’re Mr. Wayne’s kids?” the man puts together. The paramedics slide a stretcher under him. So that’s where his body is. 

The strange look the paramedics are giving him says he is still saying all his thoughts out loud. He needs to be careful with that. 

“You want to go Gotham Medical because Wayne owns the hospital? He working tonight?” the man asks. 

Tim tries to nod and white pain flashes in his head and it ends in a groan. 

“Don’t worry, kid. Gotham Medical is the nearest hospital anyways.” 

“More like only one that would take you,” the second voice rumbles. 

There’s something else. Unconsciousness threatens him as he struggles to remember. 

“Bruce . . .” he says. No. “Alfred,” he mumbles. 

“Kid, just relax,” a voice says. 

“Call . . .” Dammit, _focus._

“Do you want us to call someone for you, hun?” the woman is back. Tim groans in what he hopes sounds like a yes. 

He rattles off the number from memory, repeating it twice, three times, four, until the woman places her hand on his arm – so he still has arms, that seems like a good thing – and whispers, 

“I got it, hun.” 

Blissful darkness finally surrounds him, and he falls into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: I am nowhere close to a doctor. Do not use this fic as a basis for medical advice. And please, kids. Do not try any of this at home.


	5. The Patriarch

Jason’s heartbeat is the only sound in the room. Tim curls into the cracked plastic chair, pulling his knees into his chest and closing his eyes, trying to find comfort in the steady mechanical beeping. 

Fourteen hours of surgery. The last two, Tim has spent waiting. Two terrible hours of pacing, crying, and senseless pleading to each nurse who comes in the room for a cell phone. All give him a strange look before shuffling off without a word. 

Tim’s trying not to take it personally. 

He still has a lingering headache despite sleeping for twelve hours, though Alfred would probably contest the idea that passing out from a concussion constitutes 'well-rested.' 

The thought makes Tim’s heart ache. _Where is Alfred?_

The nurses wouldn’t tell him anything. He’d told the man who was there after he woke up that he needed to call Bruce Wayne but all he’d been met with was stony silence. He asked if Dr. Tompkins was around but had only received confused glances. When the nurses asked about scars, he effortlessly lied about a hobby of motocross and had earned only blank stares. Questions on Alfred’s arrival had returned only masked fury. 

Tim’s head hurt. He’s definitely blaming the tears on pain medicine. He listens to the steady beep of Jason’s heartrate, closing his eyes and assuring himself the older boy is fine. _Alive_. His hand trembles slightly at the thought and again, he blames the pain medication. 

He shifts in his chair, trying in vain to find a more comfortable position on the hard plastic. The movement causes the stitches in calf to pull, a deep gash Tim hadn’t even realized he’d gotten until gasping awake in the emergency room downstairs and immediately pushing himself off the gurney only to very unheroically collapse on the floor. That’s when the nurses came in. They hadn’t been impressed. 

They were letting Tim wait in Jason’s room now, he’d only been wheeled back in from surgery fifteen minutes earlier. Tim was still getting the silent treatment. 

He opens his eyes, watching the steady rise and fall of Jason’s mummified chest, eyes lingering on the gauze padding under his left breast. It was no longer tinged with blood, but the image of Jason laying in the hospital bed now is overlaid with the boy lying broken in an abandoned warehouse in a pool of his own blood. 

Tim’s hands are shaking again. 

A familiar face catches the corner of his vision. 

“Bru – “ the name dies on Tim’s lips as he jumps from his chair. 

Almost-Bruce turns to look at him, brow furrowing. His black hair is speckled with gray and his face folds into more wrinkles than Bruce has. He’s thinner, with less muscle mass and a softer figure. He stands just as tall but when he crinkles his nose, it pulls his face into an unfamiliar expression that makes Tim step backwards. 

Then, another face, a face that is achingly familiar, comes to stand beside Almost-Bruce, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder in a way that makes Tim’s throat close up. 

“Alfie,” Almost-Bruce says the name like a question. 

“Thomas,” Alfred Pennyworth says, strange steel in his usually kind voice. “A word, sir?” 

Tim’s mouth is dry and his brain skids to a halt. The two men shuffle out of view from the opened door, and Tim strains to hear their voices. 

“What’s wrong Alfred?” Tim can hear the panic in Almost-Bruce’s hushed voice. “Is Martha – “ he chokes off. 

“No, no,” Alfred’s voice has taken on its familiar comforting cadence. “Nothing like that, sir. Martha is safe at home and none the wiser.” 

“Wiser? Alfie what’s wrong?” Almost-Bruce’s voice sounds so much like Bruce. 

“I received a phone call early this morning, sir,” Alfred pauses, and Tim can’t see him, but he images the older man pursing his lips. “Mr. Wayne’s sons were en route to Gotham Medical.” 

There is a terrible moment of silence and then a horrified, “ _what_?” 

“I’ve spoken to some of the staff. The two boys in there are insisting that Bruce Wayne is their father,” Alfred’s voice is flat. Emotionless in a way makes Tim’s heart twist. 

Silence. Tim can’t move. He’s frozen now, hovering above the chair, without even the steady beeping of Jason’s heart monitor to calm the pounding in his chest. 

When Almost-Bruce comes back into view, any half-formed protests die in Tim’s throat. 

The man’s eyes fill with fury, a cruel twist on an achingly familiar feature. “I don’t know what game Thomas is playing but you leave Martha out of it.” Almost-Bruce shouts, finger jabbing Tim in the chest. He stumbles back, shocked, knees hitting the plastic chair which tips over and clatters to the floor. 

The man’s lips pull back in what can only be describes as a snarl. “When your _brother_ wakes up you can both get the hell out of my hospital.” 

Thomas Wayne turns on his heel and stomps out of the room, brushing past Alfred who hovers by the doorway with an unreadable expression. 

Their eyes meet. 

It’s pointless. It’s futile. But Tim can’t stop a small voice from calling out, “Alfred?” he asks, hearing the crack of his underused vocal cords fill the air desperately. 

Alfred’s face turns from stone to iron and the man turns without a word and walks away. 

  


* * *

  


His eyes feel fuzzy. Is that possible? He’s been grappling with consciousness for the last . . . he has no clue what the time is. It’s been a while, lucidity solid to clutch one moment, an apparition slipping through his fingers the next. 

He has a grasp on it now. He can see the Replacement in the corner of his vision, curled up in a chair, drool slipping out of the corner of his mouth. He was awake the last time Jason had a handle of consciousness but all he remembers is a tight smile and tear streaked cheeks. 

Or maybe that had been a dream. 

  


He must have fallen asleep again because Tim is no longer in the chair. He thinks he can hear him talking. His voice sounds far away but when Jason glances around the room he sees him speaking with a woman in a white trench coat leaning against the door. No, a doctor. He’s in a hospital. 

. . . For some reason. He knows this right? 

Tim is saying something about antibiotics, and he has a desperate tone to his voice that disturbs Jason. It doesn’t sound like Tim at all. The woman is mad at him. She speaks in cut off terse words that Jason might be able to understand if he knew how to focus. 

Maybe closing his eyes would help? It feels like that would help. 

  


Tim isn’t in the room when he cracks open his eyes again. He tries to call out, see if he is nearby. Panic starts to set in when he holds onto consciousness for a few minutes and Tim doesn’t reappear. There’s a _beep_ ing in the room that’s getting faster. 

_A bomb_ , his brain whispers urgently. He’s going to die. This is it. He can remember the flash of pain he’d felt at his last death, the moment of watching those damn numbers count down and then a flash of intense pain. Instantaneous his ass. 

Even an instant of intense pain feels like it lasts forever. The _beep_ ing is getting faster and he can feel his breath coming out in short panicked bursts. People run into his room. 

_No! No, get out of here!_ He tries to yell but he can’t. Can’t breathe. 

“He’s having a panic attack,” one of the women say. 

_Yes! Because of the bomb! Run, dammit!_ He tries to yell but all that comes out are wheezing short gasps. 

“Just put him under again, he isn’t calming down.” 

_No, no, he has to warn them!_

The sides of his vision start to darken, and he can feel tears streaking down his face. _Please,_ he thinks desperately. 

The _beep_ ing starts to slow and Jason slips under once again. 

  


There is a man in the room when Jason wakes up. 

He is messing with something above Jason’s head, but Jason’s fuzzy eyes won’t focus on it. The man must be a doctor, but he has a dark figure, a black coat on. 

For a moment Jason can’t figure out why this is strange. When he blinks again the man has moved. He’s still in the room but Jason is having trouble following him as he walks around, moving in and out of view. 

He pauses when he realizes Jason is conscious, but his form is still painfully fuzzy. 

When he blinks again the man is gone. 

Jason wonders if he imagined him. 

  


Tim is back when he wakes up and he has a black backpack at his feet, his face buried in a tablet. 

“Tim,” Jason rasps, his voice hoarse and painful. Tim jumps up, pale blue eyes widening and then flooding with relief. He’s never seen Tim look at him like that and it makes any other words stick in his throat. He lays there, mouth gaping open like an idiot for a second. 

“Water,” Tim says suddenly and walks out of sight for a moment and before Jason can think to track him with his head, Tim reappears, a cup of water in his hand. He puts the straw in Jason’s mouth. 

Jason lets the cool liquid fill his mouth before painfully forcing it down his dry throat. Each sip after becomes easier to swallow until he sucks up dry air. 

Jason groans and Tim’s eyebrows pinch together. 

“Do you need more morphine?” he asks, poking at a plastic bag above Jason’s head. 

“God, no,” Jason says more harshly than he meant to. Tim drops his hands and settles uncomfortably into the hard-plastic chair in the corner. He doesn’t meet Jason’s eyes. 

“Where’s Bruce?” Jason finally sighs, glancing up at the ceiling. Might as well get this over with. 

Tim stills at the name. Jason rolls his eyes. “I’m not dumb,” he says. “I know you probably had to call him when Leslie operated on me. Else she probably called him. He knows I’m in Gotham by now. I just want to get the screaming match over with while I’m still on pain medication.” 

Jason watches as Tim meets his eyes with palpable hesitation. Jason narrows his own. 

“Jay, Bruce doesn’t know we’re here,” Tim says slowly, like this is supposed to be bad news. Jason cocks an eyebrow, impressed. 

“You managed to hide this from him?” he asks. Okay, he’d been dying, bleeding out on a warehouse floor but now that’s he’s survived, Jason really doesn’t mind if Tim took a few liberties as long it means he doesn’t have to face Bruce. 

“And Leslie Tompkins didn’t perform your surgery.” Tim continues slowly. Now anger seeps into Jason’s stomach. 

“Thomas Wayne did.” 

Jason stares at Tim’s unreadable expression. 

“What,” Jason’s voice is flat. 

Tim grimaces, waving the tablet in his hand. “Apparently, that device was not a teleporter. It was for universe hopping.” Tim presses a few things on the tablet and flips the screen around to show Jason. It’s filled with a blurry photo of a man and a woman hugging each other in the rain. The headline reads _Tragedy Strikes Park Row._

“Welcome to the universe where Bruce Wayne died.” 

  


Jason forces himself awake some time later and he can tell it’s dark out, though his room has no windows. Tim must have said something to the hospital staff because he is curled up in the plastic chair, gently snoring, even though it is long past visiting hours. He looks uncomfortable but Jason isn’t about to wake him either, the kid probably needed sleep. He notices the tablet teetering precariously in Tim’s limp grip and it seems to be connected with some wires to something Jason can’t see on the floor. The younger boy was probably researching details of the new world when he fell asleep. 

Feeling clear headed for the first time in a while, Jason stretches up, experimentally shifting his body to try and find what movements hurt. Anything that jostles his left side produced a dull pain and a quick glance confirms that side of his body riddled with bruising. He looks like he was blown up. He _feels_ like he was blown up. 

He _was_ blown up. 

The wound in his chest is easily the worst of it, though when Jason flashes back to the image of rebar protruding from the area, blood bubbling from his lower chest, he knows that isn’t saying much. 

The area is stiff and when Jason tries to twist, sharp pain flares in his lower rib cage. He gasps loudly at the movement, trying to settle back into a position that doesn’t hurt but now that the pain is back, it lingers fiercely. Jason catches movement in the corner of his eye. 

“Jason, you okay?” Tim asks, his voice is sleepy and Jason curses himself for waking the younger boy up. He glances over guiltily. 

“Peachy,” he growls. The pain is ebbing now, and he sighs, leaning back. 

Tim gives a sympathetic grimace. “The doctors say that you will probably be ready to leave Monday.” 

Jason glares at him. “That means fuck-all to me, Replacement,” he growls. Tim has the ghost of a smile on his tired face. 

“Tomorrow. Considering today is today and not yesterday. If today is yesterday, then two days from now.” The boy says, rubbing his eyes. 

“Did you get hit in the head?” Jason snaps. 

“Yes,” Tim replies defensively and suddenly Jason’s anger cracks. He huffs out a laugh. 

“Thomas Wayne told you that?” he asks instead, letting go of the whole today/tomorrow thing. That sounds like a Tim-problem. 

Tim doesn’t meet his eyes, thin fingers wrapping around the tablet and gripping it until his knuckles turn white. 

“Actually, Thomas hasn’t been back since your surgery,” he whispers. “He was none too pleased that I was telling everyone I was the adopted son of his dead kid,” Tim continues dryly. 

Jason considers this, sighing. “I guess that would piss anyone off.” 

A hysterical laugh erupts from Tim’s lips, but he cuts it off immediately, sighing into his seat. 

"They let you stay in here?" Jason asks, just to fill the air and to keep talking, not wanting to slip back into unconsciousness so soon, the fuzzy feeling between waking and sleeping churning his insides. His heart tightens in fear every time he feels the haze creep in, the lack of total control causing a tidal wave of panic to course through his body, grounding him nearly immediately. But those few moments of complete terror still sour his mouth. 

Tim shrugs. "Don't think they really know what to do with me," he says quietly. "All the nurses and staff pretty much hate me on principle and Dr. Fellows - your new doctor - just wants to get us out of here as quickly as possible." 

"Wouldn't mind that," Jason murmurs. Tim _hums_ in agreement. 

Now that Jason is sitting up and Tim has shifted around, he can see what the tablet in his hands is connected to and fresh anger brews in his chest. 

“What the hell, Replacement?” he asks, voice hard. Tim tenses at the sound but follows Jason’s eyes to his feet and relaxes back into the chair. 

“I had to stash all our gear when we were brought in,” Tim says with a shrug. “I went to pick it up yesterday. Or today. What time is it?” Tim asks like Jason would know the answer to this question. 

“Tim,” Jason snaps before he has to hear more about this today/yesterday thing. “What the hell are you doing with my helmet?” 

“Well, I’m _trying_ to hack into it,” Tim says with a shrug. Jason tenses. “I had to give it a few hours, your defenses are pretty good. Hence the nap,” Tim stretches now, his back cracking. 

Jason is thrown by how readily he admits this. He hesitates. “Why?” he asks, the venom gone from his voice despite his best efforts. Tim glances at him in surprise. 

“Your helmet is the closest thing I have to a computer. I can’t leave again, they barely let me back into your room last time with no way to confirm my identity. And I might need some parts of it to repair the multiverse gun.” 

“Multiverse gun?” Jason repeats. Tim was hit in the head, Jason reminds himself. He gets to be a little stupid. 

Tim bends and shuffles through the black backpack at his feet, next to Jason’s helmet. He pulls out the teleportation gun. It looks worse now than when Jason last saw it, but he can still make out the bullet holes in the sides. A few other wires are exposed and hooked up to a circuit board that dangles to the side. 

“Lex Luthor is doing some seriously dangerous shit,” Tim says like this isn’t a given. “But he seems to have cracked travelling between multiverses. Even added a temporal component, which is why it looked like teleporting. A combination of quantum energy, alien technology, and probably some form of magic. I don’t understand it, but I think I might be able to repair it.” The boy hesitates. “Hopefully,” he adds weakly. 

Jason understands his hesitation. Fixing that gun might be the only thing that brings the two of them back to their own world. And Tim is smart, but he isn’t an expert in multiverse travel. Hell, Jason has probably travelled to more multiverses than anyone has a right to and he isn’t an expert in multiverse travel. 

_Hopefully._ His eyes travel back to his helmet on the floor. 

“You’re chopping my helmet for parts?” Jason asks, his voice losing all rage and now a little dazed. He feels the weight of exertion coming over him again and suddenly feels incredibly tired. 

Tim has the decency to give him a pained smile. ‘Once we get back, I promise I’ll replace it.” 

Tim seems ready to say something more before realizing that Jason is nodding off. "Go to sleep, Jay," he says quietly, settling back into the uncomfortable chair. 

Jason mumbles something that he hopes is, “don’t tell me what to do,” but the grin that blooms on Tim’s face makes him think the words are just unintelligible. 

He doesn’t understand how he can be so tired when all he's been doing is sleeping, and that's his last thought before falling once again into darkness. 

  


Tim is gone again when Jason wakes up, his head a little less fuzzy each time he regains consciousness. This time though, his arms feel strangely stiff when he tries to move. It almost feels like – 

His eyes snap open. There are two men standing at his door. He can hear an icy voice snapping in the distance. 

A pair of handcuffs dangle off his left wrist, the other cuff hooked to a bar on the side of his medical bed. 

_What the diddly flip?_

He glances up at the officers standing at his door and makes eye-contact with them. He tries to raise his hand and the metal cuff clangs awkwardly on the bars. 

“Uh, am I under arrest?” Jason asks. It wasn’t exactly surprising but . . . no, it was surprising. Jason can now tell the voice arguing indistinguishably down the hall belongs to Tim. 

One of the officer’s snorts like Jason has made a joke. The other doesn’t even look over. 

Jason jangles the cuffs against the metal until the officer who snorted looks over and glares. 

“Don’t you have to tell me what you’re charging me with?” Jason asks, voice dripping in sarcasm. 

The officer pulls an ugly sneer across his porky face. “You might have thought it clever, faking your own death to avoid a murder rap, kid. But it was stupid,” he spits. 

Jason just watches the man with an inscrutable expression. 

Finally, Tim storms into the room, glaring fiercely at both officers as he passes. The glare makes the officer’s partner stumble back before realizing he’s just been intimidated by a seventeen-year-old and he hastily straightens. Tim slams the door behind him pointedly, leaving the officers on the other side. 

His expression softens when he turns to Jason, wincing at the sight of Jason’s raised cuffed hand. 

He pinches his nose in an expression that should belong to a much older man. If he looked anything like Bruce, he would almost look like Bruce. 

“I’ve been handcuffed to my bed,” Jason says, like it isn’t obvious. 

“Yes,” Tim agrees wearily. 

Jason lays his hand back on the bed. 

“There a reason for this? I don’t think I’m in any condition to do something kinky.” 

Tim pulls a face that under any other circumstances would be funny, but neither boy had managed even a smile. Tim sighs again and hesitantly makes his way over to Jason’s bedside, rubbing his temples. 

“Apparently, they ran your prints after we tried to ‘extort Thomas Wayne’s fortune,’” Tim makes air quotes. “They matched a certain Jason Todd.” 

_Shit._

“Apparently, he was the main suspect in a murder a few years ago but was presumed dead during No Man’s Land,” Tim sighs and sits down. 

Jason takes the news in stride. “Well, this is unfortunate.” 

Tim nods miserably. 

“What’s Timmy Drake up to?” he asks lightly. This should have been the first thing they did. Look up the doppelgangers. Obviously. Tim might have though, and Jason Todd probably didn’t even merit a behind the fold mention. 

“He’s busy not existing. Janet and Jack Drake never married.” 

Jason considers this. “Better to have lived and died than to have never lived at all?” he tries, and Tim lets out a huff that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Jason cracks a grin. 

It doesn’t last and Tim glances ruefully at the door, like it’s wronged him in some way. 

Jason follows his gaze and cocks an eyebrow when Tim finally glances back at him. 

He sighs. “They called Child Protection Service,” his mouth twists in a funny way. “I was apparently concussed enough at the scene to tell them I was seventeen.” 

Jason purses his lips. _Double shit._ “Well, you didn’t know we were in a different universe at that point,” Jason offers. They were so far up shit creek. 

“I was apparently concussed enough at the scene not to realize we were in _an entirely separate universe_ ,” Tim corrects testily. 

Tim gives another huff. “If everyone wasn’t watching us like we were freaking criminals, we could just make a run for it.” 

Jason raised his hand. “I’m cuffed to the bed,” he says. Tim waves at him dismissively. 

“You can get out of those in seconds,” he glances over. “I’m surprised you haven’t actually.” 

Jason shrugs, which is awkward to do while lying down. “I’m lazy by nature. I want you to do it for me.” Tim rolls his eyes. “And technically, we are criminals.” 

Tim’s glaring at him now. “This is serious, Jason. We’re in the wrong freaking _universe_. I for one, actually have a vested interest in getting back to right one,” he snaps. 

Jason hardens in a minute, slamming his wrist into the side of the bed and twisting to release the mechanism in the handcuffs. They fall away from his hand and clatter on the floor. The two boys glare at each other. 

“I am taking this seriously,” he growls, and Tim stifles a flinch, but Jason still sees the twitch in his eyes. “I’m just not fucking _panicking_.” 

Tim’s eyes flicker to the gauze still taped over the stitched-up wound on Jason’s lower chest and then dart back up to his face. He pressed his lips together tightly and suddenly, it hits Jason. 

He almost _died_. Again. 

Tim could have died. His eyes linger on Tim’s own stitches on his hairline. Tim said it was almost Monday. They've been gone for three days. He spent most of those days passed out or high on morphine, but Tim’s been here. Waiting in Jason's hospital room, trying to teach himself quantum mechanics and multiverse travel. 

“You’re right. Sorry. I just . . .” Tim’s eyes travel to the floor, unable to meet Jason’s intense gaze. “I just lost myself for a minute.” 

Fuck. Guilt rises like bile in Jason’s throat. “No, _I’m_ sorry. You’re right, this is serious.” 

There’s a beat of silence and awkward air fills the room. Tim glances back at him, a small smile spreading across his face. 

“God, I wish I had that on tape,” Tim says, a goofy smile now taking over his face. 

“Timberline,” Jason says, making a rough growl take over his voice. Tim’s grin only grows. “This is _serious_.” 

The door bangs open, making both boys jump suddenly, Tim leaping out of his chair. The portly officer enters the room first, face dark with fury. He’s followed by his partner; whose own young face contorts into something more akin to fear. 

The portly officer who holds a small silver needle in his hands stalks over to Jason’s bedside and freezes mid-step. 

His taut jaw slackens ever so slightly and his eyes dart to the discarded handcuffs on the floor. Jason manages what he hopes is an innocent expression as the officer bends down and scoops them up, glowering at Jason as he does so. 

“You are no longer under arrest,” the man announces, voice bitter as he pockets the cuffs and key, going to join his partner who leans on the far wall. A woman hovers in the doorway. 

“I’m not?” Jason asks, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. Tim shoots him a look that clearly means _Do not argue_. 

The officer’s scowl deepens. “No,” he grumbles and there is a hint of something other than anger in his voice. The way he hunches his shoulders and avoids Jason’s skeptical eyes. He’s scared. 

“Your father is here to pick you up,” the man spits. And there’s the fear. The slightest quiver in his voice. Tim catches it too and the boys exchange confused glances. 

“Did Thomas . . .” Tim trails off, seeming to dismiss the idea as quickly as it occurred to him. 

A man rounds the corner of the room, Cheshire grin stretching familiar features that make Jason’s inside turn cold. 

It is not Thomas Wayne. 

“Boys,” Thomas Elliot's voice twists in mock concern. “I’ve been so worried about you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to world-explain what Gotham and the rest of this universe is like, but I will give hints throughout the story. Suffice to say, it is different. Different heroes, different history, and especially a different Gotham. The story isn't _really_ about those changes, but I will try to answer enough of the questions so it isn't entirely confusing! 
> 
> Anyhoo, they finally meet! Kinda. Okay, okay, I threw another curve ball. Hehe.


	6. The Paradox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italicized dialog refer to Aristotle quotes.

Thomas Elliot stands in front of Tim with the ghost of Bruce Wayne’s face over his own. It’s different from the Tommy Elliot Tim knows and the dissonance is easier for Tim. Easier to separate this man in front of him from both Hush and Bruce Wayne. 

His face is different. Not nearly the exact replica of Bruce’s strong jaw line and high cheek bones that Hush had perfected, though Hush himself was never able to replicate the sloping Wayne nose that Bruce sported on his face. 

This man had none of that. His jaw was far too narrow, and the chin was wrong. Too much of a cleft chin than what Bruce had. His nose had swung too far the other direction, too narrow, too entirely Kane. And the eyes were always wrong. Tommy’s eyes could never replicate Bruce’s. 

But it was obvious who he was supposed to look like. If Bruce had a brother, this man before Tim could have been it. If Thomas and Martha Wayne had a kid who grew into adulthood, it could very easily have been this creature in front of Tim. 

And it’s painfully obvious why. This Thomas Elliot didn’t have a model to work from. The realization is a painful twist in Tim’s heart, the loneliness of the hospital, the cold stares of the nurses and doctors and the mechanical beeping of Jason’s heart monitor, a constant reminder of how close the older boy came to death, and how close Tim had been to being truly alone. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jason growls and Tim knows he recognizes this man who looks nothing like Hush or Bruce Wayne. 

Tim feels the hint of a headache sprouting at the base of his skull. 

Elliot is able to pull the face that isn’t his into something that resembles shock. 

“The hospital called me,” Elliot says, body completely relaxed. He doesn’t seem to find the two boys bristling in front of him hostile. He floats around the room, touching every piece of equipment and supplies. Jason pales, sitting up in his bed. “Two boys claiming to be Bruce Wayne’s sons.” The man spreads his hands dramatically, turning with a sense of twisted showmanship that makes Tim’s gut clench. 

“Bruce Wayne is dead,” Tim says bluntly. The smile that stretches across Elliot’s face derives intense satisfaction from Tim’s words. 

Elliot tuts in a way that sends shivers down Tim’s spine. He picks up Jason’s chart, frowning strangely at it and raises an eyebrow, turning his full body toward both boys. 

“Don’t worry, Timothy and _Peter_ ,” he twists Jason’s name in a way that Tim knows Elliot has recognized it as a pseudonym. _How the hell did he know?_ “I explained to the police that any crimes committed by this ‘Jason Todd’ were done so during No Man’s Land, and even if they were to find a court willing to prosecute, any evidence has likely been long since destroyed. Or never collected.” Elliot glances at the officer’s now, eyebrow raised in a question he already knows the answer to. The younger officer won’t meet Elliot’s eyes but the older one grits his teeth and tersely nods his head. 

Elliot smiles. “And of course, as your legal guardian, Timothy, I can take you home right away. There’s no reason for you to have to spend another night on what I can only assume is a horribly uncomfortable chair,” his nose crinkles in disgust. 

“Legal guardian,” Tim repeats, incensed. Elliot looks at him with an innocent expression. 

“You did say you were Bruce Wayne’s sons,” he replies with mocking patience. He glances over at the CPS agent at the door, Heather, and tuts, rolling his eyes as if to say _‘Teenagers’_

“And you’re Bruce Wayne, then?” Tim asks dryly before he can stop himself. 

Elliot bares his teeth, grin splitting his face. “The only one in this universe,” he replies. 

Tim freezes at the words. He sees Jason stiffening on the bed at them as well. There’s no way. _How does he know_? 

“Unless,” the innocent expression is back on Elliot’s strange features. “You want to contest all this, and these officers can take your brother to Blackgate and you can come with me anyway.” 

Elliot turns to Heather in the doorway, raising an eyebrow. She glowers at him but doesn’t object to his claim. Tim could almost taste the corruption, air thick with its essence. The officers on the wall won’t make eye contact with him, Heather hides half her body behind the door frame, trying to distance herself from the situation playing out in front of her. 

Tim glances at Jason, whose hands are balled in fists, shaking at his side. His fingers twitch like they are looking for some gun or a weapon, or even the trace of a plausible protest . . . 

“I think you can leave now,” Elliot says, turning to the officers, who take the moment of silence in the room as confirmation of Elliot’s story. Tim opens his mouth, trying to think of something to say. Screaming ‘ _This man is a fucking psycho_ ’ springs to mind, but Tim can’t force himself to do it. Would they really take Jason to Blackgate? 

If what Elliot said was true about this whole No Man’s Land thing. . . Or he might have enough power over the police department for it not to matter. . . 

Dammit. If Tim hadn’t had simulations and algorithms running constantly on the tablet, he could have researched more about this world. The research he had done had been prioritized in a way that feels meaningless now, did this world have a Batman? A Flash? A Justice League? There had been frustratingly little information regarding Gotham, the city a mystery while it spent ten year - _ten years_ \- as No Man's Land. He hadn’t quite made his way to looking up Bruce’s more obscure villains and now, too late, Tim realizes trying to do both has just left him uninformed and still at square one with the multiverse gun, nowhere near fixed. 

The two officers shuffle quickly out of the room, pulling Heather who gives him one last sympathetic glance, reaching in to place a stack of papers Tim can’t immediately identify on the table, and they all disappear down the hall, door pulling closed behind them. 

Elliot’s shoulders slump when the three exit the room and he turns to Jason and Tim with a frown on his face. 

“I don’t think you two sold that nearly as well as you could have,” he chides. 

Jason is sitting up in his bed completely now, looking ready to jump into action. 

“What the hell are you doing here, Hush?” he growls. 

A grin of delight springs to Elliot’s face. “So, they have one of me where you’re from, then?” he asks casually, leafing through the papers Heather left on the counter. 

“What the hell –“ Jason starts, more punctuated now. 

Elliot pulls something from his pocket. He pushes a button on the side of the small black remote cutting Jason from the rest of his question. 

Tim’s voice fills the room.

_“Welcome to the universe where Bruce Wayne died.”_

Complete silence hangs in the air. 

“ _The gods too are fond of a joke_ ,” Elliot quotes, face breaking into a wide grin. “So, _welcome_ ,” his voice drips with false sugar. 

Tim’s eyes flicker around the room, trying to see if he could spot Elliot’s listening device and trying very hard to think about what he said in the past two days. Elliot gives that unnerving chiding tut and meets Tim’s searching gaze. 

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, kid.” He says with false concern. “I hid them pretty well.” 

Tim’s body pulses with hot anger and he has to clench his fists to stop from shaking. Heat rolls off him in waves. Hush in their world was an expert martial artist, but would this one be? And could Jason even move, mush less run? 

“So, what’s the game, Hush?” Jason cuts in, his voice almost bored. Tim has to do a double take as Jason stands from his bed, pushing himself to his feet. To anyone else, it might look like he stood casually, leaning against the bed frame with nonchalance and ease. But Tim can already see the tightness in his eyes and the slight favor of his right side. 

Still . . . he is telling Tim something. He’s saying he can run. 

Which is great. Amazing news . . . if they had an opportunity. 

Tim supposes that’s his job. Great. 

His eyes slide to the backpack at his feet. He glances over at Jason and the two boys share a silent conversation consisting of a single raised eyebrow and an imperceptible nod. 

“Game?” Elliot repeats, pen scratching something onto the papers now and Tim squints at them, taking a moment to recognize them as AMA forms. So, Elliot was serious about getting them out. What he was going to do after was . . . nothing good. 

Jason snorts, pushing away from the frame and circling the bed until he was on the same side as Tim. He looks to be only stepping closer to Elliot. 

“I’ve worked with you before,” Jason says casually and the small scar on Tim’s neck pulses at the memory. Jason shifts closer to Tim, almost appearing like he is trying to protect the smaller boy. “Although, it wasn’t quite _you_ ,” Jason continues. Jason slides close enough to Tim now that the younger boy takes a step forward. 

“You got the nose wrong,” Tim says with feigned indifference. He sees Elliot’s back stiffen at his words. The man turns away from the papers and watches Tim as he slowly approaches, circling around to the farther side of the room, making sure Elliot knows he is trying to stay out of reach. 

Tim taps his own chin. “And Bruce doesn’t have as much of a butt chin,” he adds. He sees Jason’s bent over figure from behind Elliot. Tim had to leave any of Jason’s weapons behind, only bringing the essentials in case the hospital staff searched his bag, nothing suspicious about a strange mask and a toy gun. Okay, maybe there was something suspicious about that, but nothing _illegal_. But Jason has been taught by Batman. There _was_ a weapon in there. Tim had no idea what it was, but Jason would know how to activate it. 

Elliot’s eyes are deep with rage and Tim thinks for a moment, he may have miscalculated. Before Elliot can continue to spiral, Tim changes tactics. 

“Hush always has a little game,” Tim says, shrugging and risking a step closer to Elliot. “Never very original, so let me see if I can guess this one,” Tim puts a finger thoughtfully on his cheek. “Thomas Wayne saves your mother,” Elliot’s eyes harden dangerously. “Normally a cause for celebration. Not so much so if you were the one who wanted her dead in the first place.” 

Jason is still bent down on the floor. “So, you wait, planning your revenge. Yada yada yada –“ 

“Yada yada yada?” Jason cuts in. “Tim, I think you can do better than that.” _Give me more time_. Elliot stiffens at the voice behind him, so Tim continues quickly. 

“Okay. _Fine_ ,” he says, trying to roll his eyes dramatically but Tim’s pretty sure it just looks like a spasm. He studies how Elliot turns, how his eyes follow Tim and how he keeps his hips open to the room. “You travel the world, training with the best fighters,” Elliot’s eyes have a curious glint to them now. “You were always clever, thinking five steps ahead of your opponents. It helped when you became an expert martial artist.” Elliot was almost _enjoying_ this. That just wouldn’t do. _The gods too are fond of a joke._ “Perhaps all that war strategy and Aristotelean Philosophy your mother made you memorize would finally be useful,” Tim continues. He meets Elliot’s cold eyes. “After all, it’s not like it helped much with your father.” The look on Elliot’s face has darkened and words freeze in Tim’s throat. Jason finally stands. 

“All of this because a surgeon did his job and saved your mother’s life?” Jason asks when Tim’s loses the words. The pen in Elliot’s hand has snapped and ink spills onto his clenched fist. 

“What did you do?” Tim finds his voice again, trying to speak with a confidence he doesn’t feel. He starts edging back over toward Jason. “Swear revenge on Thomas Wayne for saving your mom? Change your name and try to look like Bruce Wayne, to . . . what? Steal the Wayne fortune because your mom never let you have yours? Finally find the father in Thomas you were always jealous of Bruce for having? Or was it just to torture the man who you blamed for ruining your life?” 

Jason suddenly hefts the backpack on his bed and reaches inside. “If you’re trying to look like Bruce, it might help to have a picture to work from,” Jason says, raising his helmet in his hands. Elliot turns his icy gaze to the red mask and silence fills the room for long enough that Tim thinks he isn’t going to respond. 

Finally, Elliot gathers himself enough to pull the face that isn’t his into a sneer. “You’re trying to tell me Bruce Wayne walks around with a fucking red bucket over his head.” Jason tenses next to Tim and Tim silently begs him to let the insult go. 

Tim snorts. “Please,” he gestures to the recorder Elliot had set down on the table. “You were listening to me. This thing is basically a computer. You think it can’t store photographs?” It can’t. 

All the same, Tim holds his breath as Jason tosses his helmet at Elliot. He watches as Elliot catches it and . . . turns it over in his hands marveling at the technology inside. Did something – 

Jason shoves Tim to the side so fiercely that Tim almost slams into the closed door ten feet away. He manages to swing it open instead as he sees Elliot glance up in his periphery. The next moment, Jason shoves him out of the door completely, slamming it closed behind them. 

“Wha – “ _BOOM._

The door splinters behind them as one of the nurses by the entrance screams, dropping to the floor and diving for cover. The muted blast shakes the wall and blows out the hinges on the door to Jason’s room. Jason pushes Tim farther down the hall. 

Tim looks at Jason’s grim expression, almost frozen in shock. 

In the second of Tim's hesitation, the sprinklers on the floor to go off, finally jerking the younger boy into action. He starts weaving through what has become chaos in the halls as the hospital staff race to get out from the rain that hails down on then. 

Tim glances back at the door to Jason’s hospital room and smoke billows from the cracks in the side of it. It hasn’t opened. 

“Fricking run,” Jason snarls, shoving Tim down the hall. Tim gathers his feet beneath him again and sprints after Jason who, despite his injury, is already tearing ahead of Tim. He flings the black backpack Tim bought at the store when collecting their hidden supplies to the younger boy. Tim slips it on, pulling ahead of Jason and weaving through a maze of hallways he has already mapped out in his mind. 

He sprints down the last hallway to the left just as the sprinklers shut off, distant shouts of panic and fear echoing behind them. Tim picks up the pace. He spares a glance back to make sure that Jason is both keeping up, and that no one else is. The hallway behind the boys is empty. 

Tim thinks he hears Jason mutter something that sounds suspiciously like “trained under Batman for five years and all he comes up with is 'run for it.'” Finally, he has to ask. 

“Are you an absolute _psychopath_?!” Tim yells. Jason tilts his head as the two burst out of the surgical ward and into a waiting room, actually considering the question. 

“Jury’s out,” he admits with a shrug. The waiting room is full of distressed people, either glancing in confusion at the ceiling, as if wondering why water suddenly burst from it and feeling betrayed by the safety measure, or gathering around the reception desk, manned by a single frazzled nurse who has a phone pressed to one ear and keeps repeating ‘please calm down’ in a tone that in no way induces calm. 

Tim pulls Jason away from the crowd and through another set of doors. 

“You have a bomb strapped to your head at all times?” He hisses. 

“A small bomb,” Jason corrects. Tim glances behind them but no one appears to be following them. “What did you think my fail-safe measure was?” 

“I don’t know, Jason, knock out gas _like any other normal person_!” 

Jason shrugs, a smile fighting his lips. "We need to discuss your definition of 'normal,'" is all he says. 

“Jason, I took that thing off your head, what if I had accidentally triggered it? Hell, what if anyone who hits you in the head accidentally triggers it?!" Tim moans. "I’ve been sitting in that room with a bomb at my feet for three days!” 

Jason manages to glance over with a raised eyebrow as the two burst into the stairwell and finally begin picking up speed again. Just because Tim hasn’t seen Elliot doesn’t mean he isn’t following. It also doesn’t mean he is . . . 

“Timbo, I’m not an idiot. Why do you think the distraction took me so long to set up? I don’t have the bomb ready to blow.” 

Tim blanches. Jason rolls his eyes as the boys make it down to the bottom flight. 

“It’s a weapon of last resort. Don’t tell me you don’t have one on your suit,” he says. Tim grits his teeth, wanting to snap something back. Problem is . . . he does. The Red Robin sigil in the middle removes to become a shuriken, similar to the R on his Robin costume before. 

. . . still it wasn’t a _bomb._

Jason smirks, taking his silence as a victory. 

Jason reaches for the exit door but Tim grabs his good arm and yanks him back, glancing above them once more to make sure no one else has entered the stairwell. It’s almost _suspiciously_ quiet. Or maybe they were just finally due for some good luck. 

Tim almost snorts at the prospect. 

“ _Ow,_ Timberhead,” Jason raises an eyebrow at the grip Tim has on his wrist. Tim lets go when he pulls the backpack from his shoulders and rips it open, riffling inside. He keeps an ear tuned for any noise in the stairs even though he knows Jason will be keeping watch and pulls out the jeans and t-shirt he for grabbed the older boy a day ago. 

“Put these on,” Tim tosses the clothes at Jason who catches them in surprise. He looks down, seeming to have forgotten he still wore his hospital gown. 

“Wow, Replacement,” Jason says as Tim turns away under the pretense of watching the staircase. “I’m touched.” 

Tim rolls his eyes, eyes trained on the cement steps in front of him. It’s eerily quiet in the staircase and everything they say echoes intensely. 

“Or should I be weirded out you know my size?” 

Tim fights a smile but can’t help the small laugh that escapes his lips. 

Jason discards his hospital gown in the corner when a loud bang, like a door bursting open, echoes above them. Tim pushes Jason out the exit before the older boy finishes pulling both his arms through the black t-shirt, ignoring the hiss of pain when his hip slams into the door. 

“Sorry,” Tim mutters, but he isn’t. Jason yanks the shirt on but not before Tim spots a drop of red on his supposedly clean bandages. 

The sunlight blinds Tim for a moment and he hesitates without a plan. They were out of the hospital, in what looked like a parking lot. The emergency room entrance was to the left of them and there was an ambulance pulled into the bay, lights flashing but no siren. The air has that distinct heavy smell of Gotham, like a dumpster after it rains, which the hospital had filtered from the air and replaced with the burn of iodoform. 

He takes a deep breath, trying to savor the moment. 

“Tim,” Jason says quietly and the younger boy’s eyes snap open. 

“We need to get out of here, and quick, Elliot might be right behind us,” he says the thought of the door slamming open now spurring him into motion. He surveys the parking lot, spotting a rather old looking red sedan and making his way over. Bruce would likely not approve. 

Jason sighs, glancing back suspiciously at the hospital as he follows Tim. “Yeah I think he chucked the helmet before it blew,” he says regretfully. Tim glares at him, not sure if he wants to chide Jason for the attempted murder . . . or if he doesn’t. 

His head was starting to hurt again. 

“I can’t believe you set off a bomb in a hospital,” Tim says after a moment. “The police are _definitely_ coming after us now.” 

Jason rolls his eyes, sliding beside the car and leaning against it, wincing. He manages to keep a watchful eye on the hospital and the open space behind them that backs to a busy freeway. Tim pulls out a long piece of string with a small loop, something he had made the day before while waiting for the hack he was running to crack Jason’s helmet encryption. He sighs as he slides the string under the corner of the driver’s side door and navigates the loop around the lock at the window, ignoring the impressed cocking of Jason’s eyebrow. Tim had really needed Jason’s helmet pieces to repair the multiverse gun. The tech in Jason’s helmet was made with an alloy strong enough to withstand the type of energy the gun would be transmitting, and he wasn’t exactly sure how weaker metals would hold up. 

Frustration builds in Tim’s chest and he has to grind his teeth together to keep it from exploding out of him. 

“You and I pronounce ‘Thank you’ differently,” Jason says, his voice tight despite the light tone. Tim glances over, suddenly concerned. He manages to get the loop around car’s lock and tightens the string, pulling up and releasing the mechanism. He pulls the driver’s side door open and climbs in, Jason following suit on the passenger’s side. When he doesn’t complain or make even a sarcastic comment about the driving situation, Tim reaches over, tying to assess his pain level. Jason pushes him away. 

“Jesus, Replacement you’re like a freaking furnace,” he complains. 

"Let me see your stitches you might have ripped them,” Tim reaches to the hem of Jason’s shirt, but he swats the hand away. 

“At least buy me dinner first,” he says, clearly exhausted. He leans back into the seat. “And I’ll save you the trouble,” he grimaces. “I did rip them.” 

Tim sighs. “Let me see, Jay.” He reaches out again and Jason scoots away. 

“Seriously, you are like _radiating_ heat. Stay on your side of the car.” 

Tim furrows his brow, putting his hand to Jason’s forehead. Jason catches it, concern suddenly blooming on the older boy’s face. 

“And you look pale and sweaty,” Jason adds, eyes narrowing. 

“Thanks, you too?” Tim says, sitting back, suddenly feeling exhausted himself. No one else has exited the hospital and he allows himself a moment to rest. He’s out of breath and feeling weak. A shiver runs through him. Tim rests his head back and closes his eyes. 

“Crap,” he mutters. Finally he decides to yank the wires from under the steering wheel and leans down to cut them with his teeth. 

“I’d say that sums up our situation pretty well but what specifically, Timmers?” Jason asks, voice artificially light. 

Tim sighs. “I think I have an infection.” He says. He can feel it now, the deep cut on his leg that he nearly forgot about, skin stretching tight from swelling and heat rolling off the wound, trapping fire between his skin and jeans. 

Tim pauses before adding. “Also, I don’t have a spleen. So . . . that’s not good.” 

Jason glances over, eyebrow raised. “Is this a recent development?” 

Tim shrugs. “Define recent.” 

“The past three days.” 

Tim shakes his head. “I did not lose my spleen in an alternate universe.” 

Jason nods. “We need a doctor,” he says as the engine rumbles to life. 

“There might be a clinic . . .” Tim starts but Jason is shaking his head. 

“We have the police and Thomas Elliot looking for us,” he says harshly. Tim sighs. He knows what Jason is getting at. He glances over at the older boy; his eyes are pinched shut in pain. Tim swallows. 

“Well, then. I guess it’s a good thing we know a doctor.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, this story IS about Jason and Tim and Thomas and Martha. I promise.
> 
> Also, God I love Jason's exploding helmet gag. It is like the best thing.


	7. The Pacifist

The chimes of the doorbell to Wayne Manor hang in the cool evening air as the last sliver of sunlight disappears below the horizon. The two boys on the front steps look less like two distinct forms and more like a single entity, both leaning heavily on the other for support. Tim’s fingers like flames on Jason’s cool skin and as much as the younger boy is using him to keep steady, Jason has to lean into the touch to stay on both of his feet. 

Jason doesn’t say anything about this. Neither does Tim. And he won’t. If the kid enjoys having all of his fingers. 

It took the pair the rest of the day to make the journey all the way out to Wayne Manor, abandoning the beat up sedan at a bus terminal in Sommerset and taking Mooney Bridge the long way around to Bristol, getting off at the final stop and walking the last half mile along a deserted road and across the cobblestone driveway and up to the large oak door. The roundabout route, Tim had told Jason, a byproduct of the city’s slow revival, with most of Burnley all the way to Amusement Mile still limping back to life after No Man’s Land. Other than this terse explanation, conversation consisted of a brief mutter by Jason that this was pointless and Tim sighing in defeat, bitterly claiming he had a plan, or at least half of one. 

Nearly a full minute passes before the faint _click_ of a lock shatters the silence of the night, and the door is pulled open, a familiar cordial face distorting into an unrecognizable mask of fierce anger. 

Alfred Pennyworth is furious. 

Jason loses his tongue. It’s the kind of expression that haunted Jason’s dreams, all those years ago, when for the briefest moment, in a memory he has managed to bury deep in pit of his mind, he entertained the thought of going back. Back to Gotham, back to the Manor, back to Bruce. The moment of contemplation rewarding him with a fitful night’s sleep, these fractured memories of faces twisted in anger and pain and rejection, and the bitter taste of guilt he swore to never let sour his mouth again. 

Tim’s warm hand drops from Jason’s arm and he shivers as cold air replaces it, a chilly ghost rooting Jason to his spot on the porch. 

“Please, before you shut the door, just hear us out,” Tim’s voice is a symphony of desperation, but he holds under the butler’s intense gaze even though Jason has to force himself to glance away. The sight of Alfred makes Jason’s throat tighten and his heart ache, though he tells himself this isn’t _his_ Alfred, he’s struggling to remember the last time he saw the older man. He feels like he is in freefall, desperately grappling for any emotion with a hard edge to catch himself on, but his hands grasp open air. 

Alfred hesitates, pale fingers tightening around the edges of the dark frame, holding the door half-closed. Or half-open. 

“We need your help, please,” Tim says slowly, deliberately. The tone grates Jason though he isn't the one it's directed at. 

Jason watches as a struggle wages in Alfred’s eyes, between the burning embers of dying fire and the icy frost of cool rejection. As his eyes grow colder, Jason’s heart becomes a dead weight in his chest. 

“Alfred?” A woman calls from deep within the house, the name catching the ghost of a laugh she had just reigned in. Alfred becomes a statue. “Who’s at the door?” The voice is threaded with curiosity and concern and is stronger now, closer. Alfred shifts almost imperceptibly, blocking the hallway that runs along the north side of the house, blocking the woman whose light footfalls Jason can now hear, from his prying view. Or, perhaps, Alfred was blocking him from the woman’s. 

The half-closed door is viciously ripped open and out of Alfred’s grip. A man with graying hair and a face contorted with rage stands in the open doorway. 

“And what makes you think we would help you?” Thomas Wayne’s voice is a hot iron, slicing through the cool night and crackling in the air. He looks different from the man that hangs on the walls of Wayne Manor. The man in those portraits always has the ghost of a smile on his lips, the dance of a laugh in his eyes that complement the crow’s feet that sprout from the sides of them. Jason wonders now if that was just artistic interpretation or perhaps youthful naivety, because the man standing in front of him is cold and _very_ angry. 

What had made them think Thomas Wayne would help them? What had made Jason grasp so desperately at this broken twine, all that remained of an unsalvageable relationship Jason has spent years of his life denying. Who was Tim, and for that matter Jason, to these people? The adopted sons of an alternate universe’s version of their long dead kid? Jason wasn’t Bruce’s son. And yet, here he was with Tim, clinging to a bond he refuted trying to convince complete strangers to help them. 

There is pain in Thomas Wayne’s eyes. A deep searing pain that slices through Jason and makes his breath catch. A woman, brown delicate curls resting her shoulders and dressed in a dark eloquent dress, hovers behind the two men, confusion written all over her face. Martha Wayne glances at Alfred and her husband with intelligent curious eyes and then her gaze shoots over to Jason’s, questioning. 

Words crash like waves on a dam in Jason’s throat. 

Before Jason can pull him back, apologize profusely, and race down those damn cobblestone steps and away from this horribly painful place, Tim steps forward. 

“Because of Carmine Falcone,” Tim says softly. The words have an effect on everyone there. Alfred sucks in a short gasp that he does not release, Martha glances over at Thomas, wide eyes betraying unabashed concern, and Thomas tightens his grip on the door, looking for all the world like he is going to slam it in their faces. 

Jason, for his part, looks at Tim in complete confusion. Where the hell was he going with this? 

Tim looks at Thomas carefully, pale calculating eyes studying the older man’s face as if judging whether or not he will be able to handle his next words. 

“Twenty-nine years ago,” Tim starts hesitantly, still gauging Thomas’ reaction. The older man pales. “Vincent Falcone came to you in the middle of the night and asked you to save his son, who had been shot. You didn’t know it at the time, but Luigi Maroni shot him. It would be the start of a bitter rivalry between the two families.” 

Thomas has eased the door open more, leaning forward, almost drawn in by Tim’s story, the slow deliberate way he delivers it and the eerie silence that lingers in the air between his words. 

“You operated on Carmine Falcone right there on the dining room table,” Tim nods to the hall in Wayne Manor that Jason recognizes as leading into the dining room. Tim’s eyes linger on it hauntingly before glancing back to Thomas. “You didn’t know it, but an eight-year-old Bruce watched the entire surgery from the staircase,” he says quietly. Thomas stiffens at the words and behind him, Martha pulls closer, Tim’s hushed voice drawing her near. 

“Bruce told me Vincent offered you money or a favor in return for saving his son’s life, but you refused.” Tim has a smile playing at the corner of his lips, as if he is remembering something. “Years later, Bruce told me that he used to wonder if it would have been better if you had simply let Carmine die,” Tim’s voice is soft, but he stares intensely at Thomas now, whose eyes are stones on a riverbed. 

“You know why he told me you did it?” Tim pauses, almost giving Thomas a real chance to answer. Thomas doesn’t. Tim takes a shaky breath. “He said you would have done the same for anyone who came to the door.” 

Silence. 

No one speaks as Tim finishes the story. The younger boy’s grip has returned to Jason’s arm, tighter this time, likely getting lightheaded from the exertion. It’s the only movement for a long time, everyone unwilling to shatter the silence that fills in the air between them, thick like molasses, making it difficult to breath. 

Alfred Pennyworth’s eyes have a distant haunted look, a ghost beneath the shock that pulls them wide as he stares at something unseen over Tim’s shoulder. His lips are pressed into a thin line, resolutely shut, and his jaw holds the tension of his entire still form. Thomas Wayne stares at Tim, tears threatening the corners of his clouded blue eyes, an expression somewhere between anger and grief and looking close to shattering into one or the other. 

Martha Wayne steps forward to stand at Alfred’s other elbow and she looks at Jason in a way that makes his heart catch in his throat. Her own eyes are wet, but she has a soft smile on her face when her twinkling eyes find his, light dancing in them and revealing colors Jason can’t put names to, he can feel his lungs tighten. 

“Alfred,” she says softly, and the silence doesn’t quite shatter, but rather dissipates, expelled in a breath but leaving none of its victims reeling. “Let these boys inside and make sure we have enough for dinner.” She places a soft hand on Alfred’s shoulder and when the butler turns to her, she gives it a small squeeze. 

When Alfred’s eyes refocus, they are still far from genial, but there is a softness there that wasn’t before and when he smiles, there is the ghost of the Alfred that Jason knows, and it twists his stomach. “You best come inside, young sirs,” the butler says, and his tone is far kinder than his eyes as he steps aside to pull the door wider so Jason and Tim can step into the Manor. Tim leans into Jason as they stumble inside, the older boy almost toppling over with the weight Tim puts on him. 

Delicate hands reach out to steady the pair. 

“Thomas,” Martha calls patiently, grasping Jason’s shoulder with a firm kindness and pulling him further inside. “Go and grab your medical kit,” she says, eyeing the dark blood seeping through Jason’s shirt. 

Jason can feel Thomas hesitate for a moment, even as Martha leads him and Tim down the hall and into the dining room. 

“Sit down,” Martha says firmly, pulling two chairs away from the table and Tim nearly collapses into one. Jason grunts and lowers himself much slower into the seat. Martha frowns at Tim, placing the back of her hand on his glistening forehead. Her eyes widen slightly in surprise. 

“You’re burning up,” her voice fills with concern as Tim nods lazily, slumped sideways in the chair. 

“He has an infection,” Jason says after a beat, realizing Tim isn’t going to. The younger boy might just be too tired, or he might be about to go into septic shock. With Tim, Jason was never really sure how badly the kid was injured. Which was annoying at the best of times and these sure as hell weren't the those. 

“Where?” Thomas asks briskly, breezing into the room with a black medical bag gripped tightly in his hand. Martha takes a step back to give him room as he bends down in front of the boys. Tim groans but manages to sit up and pull his left jean pant up over his knee, revealing a small fiery red cut with white seeping through dark stitches. 

“Fucking hell, Replacement,” Jason snaps before he can stop himself. Thomas freezes at his harsh tone, hands hovering above his med kit. Tim, the bastard, actually laughs, though it’s a pitiful and ragged sound. 

“I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten,” he admits with a shrug. The laugh pushes Thomas back into motion and he pulls on a pair of nylon gloves, gingery brushes the wound. Tim hisses in pain and shuts his eyes, glancing away. 

Thomas clears his throat awkwardly. “I’ll clean the wound and redress it,” he says, voice a little distant and unfocused. Jason leans forward, narrowing his eyes at the younger boy. 

Tim’s face is still cast downward and after an awkward beat of silence, Jason raises an eyebrow. There's no way the kid can't feel his gaze boring into his back. 

“Tim,” Jason growls, internally wincing at how harsh his voice sounds. He glares at the younger boy and very pointedly does not look at Thomas or Martha. Tim meets his eyes, surprised, guilt pooling in the corners for only a second before he dispels it with a quick eyeroll. 

“I’m also missing a spleen,” Tim says mildly. Thomas jerks his head up in surprise. Jason locks his teeth against any biting remarks. 

Thomas clears his throat again and Jason wonders if it's a nervous habit. “I can get you some antibiotics too,” he murmurs. 

Thomas falls silent and begins cleaning Tim’s wound and Jason shifts in his seat, trying to figure out what to do with his arms. He wants to cross them but his chest aches preemptively at the thought of the pressure, so he settles for a death grip on the sides of his chair. The lack of holster on his hips or side makes him feel worse than naked, it’s like he’s missing a limb. He can feel fresh blood dripping down his stomach, the wound on his back hits uncomfortably on the wooden chair, and he can feel the tightness of where more of his stitches are about to pull, but all he can think about is the emptiness of cool metal on his thigh, how his arms hug his hips with no impediment and how utterly and completely _exposed_ he feels. 

“Tim, then,” Martha says with a smile and Tim snaps his head over to hers, surprised at the name. He gives a hesitant nod and her eyes fall on Jason. She doesn’t ask or raise an expectant eyebrow, but she waits with a sort of unassailable patience that instantly washes away any emotional distance Jason was in the process of building. 

“Jason,” he forces out, voice brittle. He can’t figure out how to make his voice anything other than brutish and hard, but Martha gives a kind smile at it anyways. 

“Well, Jason and Tim, let me get you two some water,” she says not giving them an option before turning from the room. She gives a significant look at Thomas as she passes. 

It’s silent after she leaves and she’s gone for so long Jason starts to wonder if she was just making an excuse, trying to get away from his strange anger the awkward tension permeating the room. Thomas doesn’t look up from the work, not acknowledging the boys at all and Tim’s eyes are pinched shut as he stifles hisses of pain. 

Jason let’s his mind wander in the silence, glancing around the dining room. It doesn’t look much different from the room he remembers, though truthfully, he can’t recall the last time he came upstairs into the Manor. He had been to the Cave several times, mostly to steal supplies whenever Tim let him know that the coast was clear. But going into Wayne Manor would be different, too much like defeat. Though being back now, maybe it’s just the fact that it’s a different Manor in a different world with entirely different people inside, but it almost feels . . . nice. 

“I wonder about that night,” Thomas says so quietly Jason almost misses it. Tim still has his eyes pinched shut and Jason can’t figure out who he is talking to until he says, 

“Like you said. About if I should have saved him. If Gotham would have been better off if I hadn’t.” 

Tim bites his lip, cracking his eyes open but Thomas’s gaze is locked on Tim’s cut. 

“Maybe Gotham wouldn’t have erupted into a gang war, wouldn’t have been put under Martial Law. Wouldn’t have been declared No Man’s Land. Maybe we would still be able to tell the difference between the police and the criminals.” Thomas sighs wearily and starts redressing Tim’s wound. 

“You can’t think like that,” Jason snaps, not even recognizing his own harsh voice for a second. Thomas glances over in shock too, though Tim relaxes into the chair, seeming relieved that Jason had spoken. The older boy meets Thomas’ searching gaze and after a full minute of silence, words refusing to form syllables in Jason’s mouth, Thomas takes off the gloves he used to clean Tim’s cut and pulls on a new pair, noddingly quietly to Jason’s blood-stained shirt. 

Jason hesitates before pulling it up. Another minute passes with no one saying a word and finally the dam in Jason’s throat crumbles completely. 

“You can’t think like that,” he says, voice steadier as he feels the local anesthetic poke his chest. “You can’t spend your life wondering ‘what if.’ I’ve been to enough universes to realize that,” his voice is getting harder again, dangerous, but Thomas doesn’t seem to react to it and for all Jason knows Tim could be asleep. “It could have been better. It could have been worse,” Jason shrugs. “It could have been the exact same damn thing.” 

Thomas pulls away and begins redressing Jason’s wound with new gauze, his face releasing tension Jason didn’t know it had been holding. There is a spark in the older man’s eyes, a distance dance that makes him look younger. And maybe more like those paintings that filled the halls of Jason’s youth. 

Martha Wayne comes back in, a knowing smile on her face. 

“I will not be letting you boys go to bed without supper. I hope you like lasagna.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Wayne saving Carmine Falcone's life is from _Batman: The Long Halloween_. I absolutely love the story. There is a conversation in the comic between Alfred and Bruce where Bruce is wondering if Gotham would have been better off if his father had let Carmine die, and Alfred is the one who tells him that Thomas would have saved anyone who came to the door.


	8. The Philanthropist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: references to past suicide attempt

Dinner is awkward at best. 

The conversation starts casual enough. 

“So . . .” Thomas says, poking at Alfred’s lasagna, which itself is an insult to the dish. “Multiple universes.” 

Jason chokes on his water. 

Martha simply purses her cherry lips and glances at Thomas, a disapproving frown rippling across her otherwise calming features. The four have gathered in the dining room, thick Bocote table pushing them apart, the silence like a blanket over them, stifling any normal conversation. 

“Thomas, don’t pressure the boys,” Martha chides. Her light brown curls are now clipped back, revealing hazel eyes that seem to catch different shades in the light as she looks pointedly at her husband. Her gaze manages to hold not only a sharp intelligence that makes it hard for Jason to meet without feeling like she is pulling back every layer he drapes around himself like armor but also a quiet kindness that makes it impossible to look away. 

“No, no,” Tim cuts in, looking more awake now that he’s gotten food in his stomach. “We, uh, owe you an explanation.” He glances at Jason as if to say, _‘Well, explain_.’ 

Jason glares back. Tim just sits there looking at him with this goddamn inscrutable expression schooling his face into a blank mask. They hold each other’s gaze for a full minute. Two. 

“Er, right,” Jason finally breaks. Freaking Replacement. “How much do you guys know about the multiverse?” 

Thomas freezes, the piece of lasagna on his fork slipping back onto his plate. Martha takes a slow slip of her water. 

“Not much,” she says mildly. Thomas looks chiseled from stone, deep blue eyes piercing Jason’s composure. He can’t meet them. They look too much like Bruce. Jason’s throat is tight but he manages to speak evenly. 

“Okay, well. We, uh, accidentally got . . . shot . . . into this universe and, uh, we’re trying to fix the device that can send us back.” He looks over at Tim as if asking, ‘ _Is that what we’re doing_?’ 

The younger boy nods vigorously. Jason shoves a bite of lasagna in his mouth hoping to cease any more questions, his throat closing now at an alarming rate. 

Martha hums thoughtfully. Thomas still holds his empty fork hovering in front of him. The air fills with an uneasy electricity, building dangerously until, in an instant, it’s grounded when Martha Wayne calls, 

“Alfred stop messing around with the dishes already and join us,” her voice saturated with amused impatience. 

The tension Jason holds in his body evaporates fast and he scrambles to hold onto it, the feeling of being unprepared striking panic in the back of his mind. His fingers ache to close around something as he grips his fork tighter. Ache for the cool metal of a weapon. He wants something here, now, to be able to control the pressure in the room. To put it on his terms. A viper in between himself and the people in front of him. He’s knows it’s irrational, crazy, probably slightly psychotic, but the tension in the room crashes into him like waves on his back and every time he gets knocked under and fights his way back to the surface to gasp for breath, a new wave hits him. Panic swells inside him and the tide drags him farther out to sea. 

There is a soft chuckle from the kitchen and the distant sound of running water shuts off and Alfred Pennyworth breezes into the room with a pitcher of water, calmly and deliberately filling each glass. Martha sighs. 

“Will you deign us with your presence now?” she asks as he finishes. He sets the pitcher down on the table and walks over to the fifth-place setting. 

“I suppose eating has been added to my job description then?” Alfred asks, his airy British voice holding the ghost of an old inside joke. Martha rolls her eyes and glances at Jason with mock exasperation. 

Another wave crashes into his back and pulls him under. 

“Watch it or you’ll find yourself at the wrong end of a raise,” she threatens with a smile. 

A sharp kick under the table helps Jason surface again, gasping for breath, and, with a look from Tim, Jason realizes his mouth had been hanging open watching the exchange. Martha glances at him with a soft smile. 

“The best way to get Alfred to do anything is to threaten him with a raise,” she mock whispers to him, intelligent eyes dancing at the prospect. “He shudders to think what he couldn’t get away with if we actually paid him a proper amount.” 

“Nonsense,” Alfred says, not even glancing over. “I simply worry that if you pay me for the work I do you’ll go bankrupt within the week.” 

Martha smiles at him warmly. Jason’s mind limps along, trying to keep up with the conversation in front of him. He can see Tim similarly staring, pale eyes pulled wide. 

“You know how to do that?” Thomas cuts in suddenly, tone slicing through the teasing atmosphere that had filled the room and shaking Jason from his daze. Thomas’ eyes pull into focus as he speaks, like his brain had short circuited, but the backup generators finally kicked in. 

“. . . do what?” Jason asks cautiously. 

“Fix the . . .” Thomas makes a vague gesture. “Whatever thing that brought you here?” 

Jason glances over at Tim now. The younger boy looks to be struggling to keep his own head above the waves, treading water at an alarming rate, but he latches onto Thomas’ question like a life preserver. What does it say about them that this is an easier topic of conversation? Nothing Jason wants to know, that’s for sure. Tim puts down his fork. 

“Maybe,” Tim replies slowly after a moment. “It was, ah, damaged when we came through, but I should be able to repair it.” He sighs remorsefully. “We lost some of the. . . uh, materials I was going to use to fix it at the hospital, but I might still be able to get it to work,” Tim explains. Jason imagines of the look on Thomas Elliot’s face when his helmet exploded and for the first time tonight, he smiles. _Whoops._

Thomas raises an eyebrow at them. “The bomb,” he says flatly. _Frack._

Tim manages a small wince. “Yeah. We were trying to get away from – “ 

“Right,” Thomas interrupts suddenly, voice hard now but rushed, tinged with a desperation that Jason picks up on immediately. 

Tim frowns but doesn’t push the subject. “Sorry if we caused any . . .” he glances over at Jason. “Unnecessary damage,” he finishes awkwardly. 

Thomas’ other eyebrow joins the first, stretching his face in way that Bruce never would. “Unnecessary damage,” he repeats slowly. Jason tries to glance away, to expel the comparison. To stop relating this man in front of him and all the tiny things he does, the small twitch of his lips that means he’s frowning, the expression more of a micro expression, the pinch of his eyes when he’s confused, face determined to mask the unbidden emotion. And his eyes. His eyes that look so much like Bruce’s eyes, but cut with a raw pain that Bruce has long since buried behind a calculating mask of composure. 

“Thomas,” Martha says with a frown. 

“Bomb?” Alfred repeats cocking his eyebrow. The look makes Jason want to take his cup of tea with milk and confess every lie he’s ever told. 

Martha turns her unassailing gaze on Alfred and the butler inclines his head slightly and clears his throat. 

“So, are you boys in school?” the older man asks kindly, not bothering with subterfuge in order to change the topic. Still, Jason’s head spins at the transition, trying to keep up with the rapid changes in the conversation but only gaining whiplash for his troubles. 

He supposes, under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t be a strange question. But he hasn’t been in school since before he died, literally a lifetime ago, and he’s pretty sure Tim dropped out at some point after Bruce’s ‘death,’ because the kid now has an office at Wayne Enterprise and complains to Jason about things like _Authorization Memos_ as if Jason gives a damn about his day job. 

“Er, not at the moment,” Jason replies evasively, glancing at Tim to see the same pained expression on his face, both trying to think of a way to casually explain their very weird life. 

Alfred frowns, like he can’t tell if they are simply being semantic or not. 

“I, uh,” Jason struggles to explain. 

_I dropped out at fifteen. When I died. After being tortured and blown up because the woman who donated fifty percent of her DNA to me sold me out to a psychotic clown. And then when I was tossed into a green insanity pool and resurrected, I was too busy cutting off the heads of every drug dealer in Gotham, partly to bring down the drug trade but also to taunt your son who left the bastard that killed me not only alive but in a cushy cell in Arkham, free to break out whenever the hell he wants to and kill more people and ruin more lives. Once I finally got my head on straight again, read as: did not actively want to kill everyone, including but not limited to the kid sitting next to you, I never really saw the point of going back to school considering that son I was talking about? The only that took the trauma of your deaths and made it into an excuse to dress like a bat and instill the stupidest immoral moral code amongst his followers? He indoctrinated me with all the useless information I would never need until I was a goddamn encyclopedia of murder knowledge. So yeah, I never finished tenth grade._

“I graduated early,” Tim says when Jason faulters. 

Martha’s eyes light up. “Thomas here graduated early too,” she says, glancing now at her husband. 

“You did?” Tim asks, following her gaze. Thomas nods in surprise, eyes flickering to Martha in confusion. When Jason looks over, her eyes are a dark brown, clouded and sad. 

“You don’t know us,” she says softly, and Jason stiffens. “We aren’t alive in your universe, are we?” she asks. 

And he’s underwater again, sucking in saltwater and trying desperately to find the surface. 

Martha glances over at him. Her hazel eyes dance with flecks of blue. “Did it happen that night? In the alley?” she asks. 

Tim’s gaze is cast downward, thin fingers tapping against his fork. Jason manages to meet Martha’s eyes, a calming blue pooling toward the pupils. There’s Bruce in her eyes too but somehow, it’s easier to look at. He manages to nod stiffly. 

Martha presses her red lips together, looking at Jason and Tim thoughtfully. Emotions beat against his back. Finally, she smiles. 

“Does anyone want dessert?” 

  


* * *

  


An hour after dinner, after Alfred managed to both wash all the dishes and prepare two guest room, much to Martha’s false chagrin. After stilted conversation gave way to an easy back and forth as Martha got Thomas to tell her about his day, the latter managing to do so without mentioning the bomb Jason and Tim had set off in a hospital of all places. After Jason finally collapsed in the bed set out for him, Tim silently thanking whatever inclined Alfred to prepare two rooms in what was the unused hall of the Manor back home, lest Tim have to endure the surreal experience of sleeping in a shell version of his own room. Or worse, force Jason to confront what an unused version of his old room looked like. 

After letting Alfred lead the pair to their quarters for the night, the butler stiffly asking if either needed anything and both vehemently replying that they most certainly did not. After Jason awkwardly bid Tim good night, the older boy with a strange distant look in his eyes that Tim knew was a sign that this universe was messing with him as much as it was messing with Tim. 

After promising Jason that he would go right to bed, Tim slips out. 

Tim finds him in the study, looking at a familiar oil panting hanging behind the same ornate desk Tim knows is covered with Wayne Enterprise R&D files at his Manor. This one is empty, pristine, like it’s in a museum rather than a house. 

The painting on the wall is the same, the same smiling happy family. A young man with a square jaw, the wisp on a mustache, a twinkle in his eye that makes him look mid-laugh. A pretty woman with bright eyes but a soft smile, somewhere between bemused and exasperated, like she can’t believe her husband is really joking at this very moment, but she can also believe it all too well. And a small boy, grinning in a way that Tim has never seen the older version smile, wide, weightless, with the sort of wonder only a child can muster. 

Tim would find Bruce in this room sometimes. Back when he was Robin and actually living at the Manor. Not often, but enough times to know what the air felt like when Bruce looked at the painting. Light and contemplative, the tension in his chest never creeping into his shoulders. 

The room before Tim now is entirely unfamiliar. Tight shoulders hold the man in the room rigid and a blanket of distressing unease smothers the air as Thomas Wayne looks at the last happy picture of his family. Despite knowing he needs to say this, needs to say something, Tim almost turns around at the sight of it. 

Instead, he steels himself and raps on the door, making sure to give himself away before he starts speaking. 

Thomas lurches in surprise at the sudden noise and whips around. _Well, it’s really the thought that counts._

“Sorry for interrupting,” Tim says, eyeing the painting carefully. To his credit, Thomas recovers quickly, offering a small smile. 

“It’s fine, did you need something?” 

Tim shakes his head. “Alfred set up rooms for us,” Tim says awkwardly, not knowing how to go about broaching the topic. 

Thomas just nods, eyes absent. 

“I’m sorry,” Tim bursts suddenly, trying not to wince from the lack of tact. 

Thomas furrow his brow in confusion. “Sorry?” he repeats. 

Tim nods, biting his lip. “For the hospital,” Tim explains. “For claiming to be Bruce Wayne’s sons,” Tim amends because he’s not positive he’s exactly sorry for the bomb thing. Yet. Elliot's creepy smile still lurks in the back of his mind. 

Thomas only looks more confused. “You’re sorry?” he repeats, voice incredulous. It’s so strange to hear Bruce’s voice with so much emotion behind it. “Why would you be sorry? You didn’t even know you were . . . “ He trails off like he is unwilling to say ' _in a different universe_.' “You didn’t know about Bruce,” he amends. 

Tim shrugs. “I know. But I didn’t mean . . .” Now Tim scrambles for the words he is willing to say. _Just spit it out_. “I saw the scars,” he forces through his lips. Thomas stills. “On her wrists. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you guys any more pain.” 

Thomas glances away from him, back toward the oil painting on the wall, but his eyes are downcast. A twelve-year-old Bruce grins down at the scene. 

It is silent in the study for a full minute, and Tim can’t help but remember the small white scars he glimpsed on Martha Wayne’s wrists as she took her plate from him at the table, with a laugh and teasing joke that she wasn’t going to let Alfred get all the credit for cleaning up. Old wounds, sure, but scars like those are never _old._

“It was always easier for her,” Thomas says quietly after a moment. “After,” he clarifies unnecessarily. “I tried to shut everyone out, I pushed everyone away. Friends, family . . .” Thomas glances up at the painting, no longer looking at Tim. “But it almost got easier for her. To let people in. To love still,” his voice breaks. “I thought it was a good thing at first,” he admits, steadying his speech again into a quiet but even tone. “But people took advantage of it,” his voice gets hard, chilling, emotionless in a way that sounds familiar to Tim, but his gut sinks at the sound of it. 

“Thomas Elliot,” Tim says. A short nod. 

“She’s strong,” Thomas says after a moment and it sounds . . . wistful. Almost sad. 

“It’s a different kind of strength,” Tim agrees. 

“Her strength scares me,” Thomas adds quietly. 

Tim nods. 

It scared him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to suicide in this chapter is by no means going to become a major theme in this fic. That being said, please get help if you need help. What Tim and Thomas reference in regards to coping with loss, whether it being shutting oneself off from friends and family, or keeping oneself open, is not meant to be a judgement on the "correct" way to deal with death, it is simply an observation by two people who reacted very similarly to the death in their lives.


	9. The Prodigal

Tim wakes up to the sound of muffled screams. 

He’s out of his bed and halfway across his room before he even recognizes the voice. It’s Jason. 

He yanks open the door to his room, nearly running full speed into Thomas and Martha, who hover just outside of Jason’s doorway. 

Tim catches Thomas’ outstretched hand before it can grasp the door handle and the situation finally clicks together in his head. Jason's having a nightmare. 

“Wait,” Tim says, voice hushed, holding the quiet of the night even as it is shattered by the boy on the other side of the door. “I got this.” Martha hovers behind Thomas, hand on his other arm but not gripping it as harshly as Tim. He drops Thomas’ wrist. 

“Please, just let me handle it,” Tim repeats, hoping he doesn’t sound desperate. Jason’s yells have died down on the other side of the door, but Tim can still hear distressed commotion coming from the room. 

“Thomas,” Martha says, tugging now on the arm. She wraps her silk robe tighter around her waist and steps back, worried eyes flickering to Tim and softening into something that makes the younger boy’s insides twist painfully. Tim breaks eye contact and waits until the two retreat down the entire hallway. He slips quietly into Jason’s room. 

Pulling the door shut silently behind him, Tim blinks several times, fighting the darkness of the room and willing the dark shadows to take shape. Jason twitches in his sleep, muscles rippling and tensing dramatically, but the older boy doesn’t move. 

Tim hesitates at the door. Waking up Jason seems like a _really_ bad idea, but the way he thrashes in his sleep and the nagging worry now piercing Tim’s heart doesn’t let him turn around and retreat from the room. He inches closer to the bed. 

Tim gets within two feet of the headboard before his concern is officially warranted. 

One of Jason’s fists whips out towards Tim’s face and the younger boy throws his arm up to block the punch, not bothering to shout in surprise. The corner of his eye catches the follow up and he ducks beneath the strike. And that’s about all he has time to process before Jason’s leg whips out and crashes into Tim’s thigh, knocking the younger boy to the floor with a deafening _thud_. In the next second, Jason is on top of him, hands wrapping around Tim’s thin neck. 

Jason’s grip squeezes out any air Tim has left in his throat and his lungs burn. He jerks his knee up and into Jason’s thick chest and the older boy grunts as it makes contact with his torso. Just as the corners of Tim’s eyes begin to spot, he kicks out, flinging Jason back toward the foot of the bed. Tim rolls over, gasping for air. 

He tenses, waiting for the next attack that never comes. Still trying to catch his breath, Tim glances over at Jason, head buried in hands and knees pulled to his chest, leaning against the bed and breathing hard, like he was the one almost choked out. 

For a moment, nothing but gasps fill the room. Tim’s body is rigid, refusing to relax even now that Jason is feet from him and curled into a ball. 

“Jason,” he rasps before clearing his throat and continuing stronger, “Jason, are you okay?” he asks, crawling closer but keeping enough distance now so he can react if Jason attacks again. 

A startled shaky laugh escapes Jason’s downcast face and the hands that wrap around his head shake. “Fuck, Replacement. That’s my line.” 

Tim warily scoots closer, still watching Jason’s form for any sudden tension. 

“What the hell were you doing?” Jason’s voice is unsteady despite the venom he tries to put in it. Tim doesn’t comment. 

“You were having a nightmare,” Tim explains weakly. Jason shudders. 

“It wasn’t a goddamn nightmare,” he bites out. “It was freaking _real_.” 

Tim’s throat closes at that. 

Jason’s hands clench and unclench but it doesn’t seem threatening. Finally, the older boy looks up, dark eyes haunted. “Fricking hell, Tim, are you okay?” 

Tim manages a throaty laugh. “I’m fine,” he says. Jason looks at him doubtfully, eyes flickering to what Tim knows are red marks around his neck. The older boy swallow hard. 

“Shit. Tim . . .” his hands shake again and Jason clenches them to stop the movement. “I’m fucking sorry.” 

Tim laughs, almost genuinely this time. “It’s fine, Jason. Honestly it wasn’t even your best attempt on my life.” 

Jason’s face darkens and he looks away. It’s Tim’s turn to swallow hard. 

“Sorry,” he says, sitting next to Jason, his back resting against the bed, but still a good foot away from the older boy. “Bad joke.” 

The two boys are quiet for a while and Tim starts to wonder the best way to return to his room, awkward air beginning to give way to genuine exhaustion when Jason finally speaks. 

“Frack,” he moans into his palms, rubbing them over his eyes. “I guess I should apologize for that too.” 

Tim sighs. “Seriously, Jason. It’s fine.” 

“Stop saying that,” Jason snaps and Tim tenses. Jason lets out a ragged sigh a moment later, head returning to his palms. They stay there like that for a moment. Tim silent, Jason panting, still trying to calm himself from whatever nightmare he’d woken up from. 

“I’m sorry,” Jason says again. Tim has to swallow the automatic _I’m fine_ that rises to his lips. He manages a shrug. 

“You were going through something, Jason. I get it.” 

They are quiet for another moment. And then, “ _why_?” Jason asks. 

Tim glances over, not sure he understands the question. Jason finally looks at him. 

“Why in the ever-loving fuck do you even talk to me?” He says, and there is an edge to his voice. 

Tim glances away. “Jason. You died. And then you came back to life. I think that entitles you to a freak out or two.” 

“I literally murdered people,” Jason says. 

Tim nods, unwilling to brush this off. “You did. A lot of people.” 

Jason purses his lips. “I still kill people.” 

Tim’s eyes slink over. Jason stares straight ahead, not looking at him. His shoulders are tense. 

“Maybe not in Gotham. Maybe not in a while. But I still do. Still will.” 

Tim’s gaze shutters away. He rests his head back on the bed. “I know,” he says simply. He can feel Jason start at this, glancing over in surprise. Tim pulls his eyes to the dark light fixture above them, finding it easier to focus on. 

“Then why the _fuck_ do you work with me,” Jason snarls. 

Tim keeps his gaze on the ceiling, cracking his knuckles and filling the silence that leeches into the room. The tension pooling in Jason’s shoulders tells Tim that brushing off his question will only fuel Jason’s anger and Tim sinks into the side of the bed. 

“When I first became Red Robin,” Tim says, voice low. “I was . . . confused. I was trying to figure out who I wanted – needed – to be. Who Red Robin needed to be. When I became Robin, I was inheriting an already established title. I was just what you said, a replacement.” He can feel Jason stiffen next to him and Tim actually laughs. Maybe all the sleep deprivation is catching up to him. He wants to shove the words back into his mouth, but he can’t stop talking. 

“I mean that in a good way,” he adds when Jason doesn’t relax. “That’s what I wanted to be. What I told Bruce to get the job.” 

Jason’s eyes flicker over in a question he doesn’t voice. Tim takes a shaky breath. 

“I told him until he could find someone better, I already knew his secret, so it had to be me. Because Batman needs a Robin and Gotham needs a Batman and a Robin. Like when policemen die in the line of duty, their beat isn’t just vacant. They’re replaced with a new officer in the same uniform to show the city that the police will continue to protect them. To show the criminals that they can’t win by just killing the police.” 

The silence when he pauses is _deafening_ and Tim can’t stop talking. 

“But that was Robin. And I wasn’t Robin anymore,” Tim’s voice has gone flat now and he clears his throat, hoping Jason didn’t notice. “Red Robin was a new name. It had no real ties to Gotham or anything in this universe. I literally got it off a criminal. I could make it stand for anything I wanted.” Tim looks at Jason now, whose own gaze is now similarly on the ceiling. “The Red Hood stands for something Jason. Maybe I didn’t always get that, but I do now.” 

Jason is unable to speak. Or unwilling. 

When he finally finds his voice, it is cracked and ragged, but Tim breathes a sigh of relief at the sound. “Red Hood is a killer.” 

Tim hums to fill the silence, noise the only banishment to the uncomfortable quiet that creeps back into the room. 

“Sometimes,” Tim says, eyes drifting up again. “But not always. Jason every time you load a gun with rubber bullets, every time you decide not to kill . . . that matters.” _It should_ , Tim adds, own mind harkening back to his argument with Bruce on the rooftops of Gotham, when he’d made the hardest decision of his life and had been chastised for it. An argument that was still raw and sensitive, an open wound, unresolved despite Tim and Bruce doing an excellent job of pretending it had never occurred. 

Jason’s looking at him completely doubtfully, like he’s about to call bullshit of everything Tim just said. He can feel anger rolling off Jason in waves and Tim knows it’s time to shut up. 

He lets his eyes slide close and the two sit until the sun starts to creep through the curtains and light pours into the room. 

  


* * *

  


When Jason leaves the bedroom, his hands are still shaking. 

If he stayed in that goddamn room another moment, he was going to punch the Replacement in his stupid face and Jason can only control so much but he can control this. 

He’s freaking pissed at Tim Drake. 

Tim for just brushing every murder attempt aside, for just coming back time after time and giving Jason chances he didn’t deserve. For being such a goddamn idiot. For letting him out of Blackgate. For telling him Bruce died and asking him to listen to the will. For tracking him down when he got back to Gotham and telling him Bruce was alive. Alive. The bastard. 

This anger isn’t the same green tinged rage he had first come to Gotham with, hating Tim with a singular mindlessness, no other emotion conceivable to his Lazarus ridden mind at the time. 

The way he used to hate Tim had been so easy. The type of hate you can only direct at someone you don’t know. When he came back his feelings for Bruce and Dick were so complicated and confusing. Hatred and betrayal and love and regret and guilt. But Tim? In comparison it had been so easy to hate him. And Jason’s done a lot of things that he isn’t proud of, but he’ll own every single one of them. Most things he did was a part of his crusade. His mission. But hurting Tim? Hating Tim? That was personal and batshit crazy and he hates Tim even more for how easily the kid forgave him. 

But that anger faded. In those months when Tim was off God knows where doing God knows what, Jason had been sorting through the mess that had become his life. Looking around a Batman-less Gotham and having to face the truth: was his crusade really about Gotham, or had it always just been about Bruce? 

He ran across Dick in the cape and cowl a couple of times, but their fights had been half-hearted at best and without Bruce there, the green tinge in the corners of his vision stayed away, draining from his body suddenly and unbiddenly. The sharp taste of rage was ash in his mouth, disintegrating like he imagined Bruce’s body had under Darkseid’s Omega Beams. He had to answer the question because if it was all about Bruce, if it had only been about Bruce, then Jason was no different from any other costumed freak running around Gotham in the night. 

And that scared him. 

He blew through half his whiskey supply before finding the answer: it had mostly been about Bruce. But not all of it. He’d made sure of that, even at his worst, lopping off heads through an ever-present green haze, he had made a rule: no selling to kids. 

Gotham was _his_ city. As much as it had been Bruce’s and certainly more than it was Dick’s. And he cared about it. Goddamn it all to hell he cared about Gotham and Bruce’s stupid mission. 

And then Tim came back, showing up after a week in the middle of Jason’s patrol route, which even Dick hadn’t managed to figure out. He told Jason about Bruce and Jason half expected the anger to come back, right then and there, green spots prickling in the corners of his eyes and overtaking his vision. But it didn’t. The anger at Bruce still an icepick in the heart, flaring up whenever the man tried to exchange even as little as a passing glance with Jason. But the anger at Tim was a dry creek bed and looking at the kid on that roof in his second hand-me-down costume, Jason couldn’t even muster enough venom in his death threat to convince either of them that the words were anything but empty. 

Even now, as Jason clenches his fists to stop the shaking, to push down the anger, it feels red not green, a sharp fire in his gut and not a mindless haze creeping into his mind. 

It was what he said, Jason reasons. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t because Tim said words some small fractured part of Jason he liked to pretend didn’t exist had been wanting to hear for the longest time. Tim wasn’t the person Jason wanted to hear them from. 

It was the way he said it, Jason tries. Tim’s eerily calm and monotonous voice irritating him at the best of times. But it wasn’t that either. 

It was that Tim seemed to be the exact opposite of Jason in every single way, like he had looked at his predecessor and lived his life determined to be the perfect contrary. Jason was impulsive, Tim never made a goddamn move without first considering the trajectory of the fricking wind. Jason was emotional, Tim acted like a goddamn robot with his blank expression and monotone voice. Jason torched every relationship he had, snapping olive branches for a pyre and reveling in the flames. Tim built bridges so vehemently he came to Jason, _Jason_ who tried to kill him _multiple_ times, to . . . Jason doesn’t even freaking know. Build a damn rapport? 

So, Jason is pissed at Tim Drake and he needs to get out of that damn room. 

Jason is storming down the stairs of the Manor, determined to put vertical as well as horizontal distance between himself and Tim, not entirely sure on where he plans to go, when he hears voices in the kitchen. 

“You know, too much tea is actually _bad_ for you.” It’s Bruce voice, but Bruce with emotion. Which means Thomas. He sounds almost _playful_. 

“Since when? List your sources,” the laughing voice of Martha Wayne answers. 

“Sources?” A spluttered laugh. “I’m a doctor!” 

“Indeed, sir.” It’s Alfred. “And I suppose you always dispense accurate nutritional advice?” 

“If this is about – “ 

“You wouldn’t dare – “ 

“It was _one_ time, Alfie.” 

“Imply that dry Froot Loops – “ 

“Martha help me out?” 

“Constitute an acceptable dinner.” 

Martha says, “oh no I’m staying out of this one,” at the same time Thomas replies innocently, “They have fruit in the name?” 

And Jason rounds the corner of the kitchen in time to catch Alfred glare pointedly at Thomas. The older man looks sheepish but pleased. 

Everyone in the room freezes. 

“Jason!” Martha says brightly, setting down a steaming teacup, a smile pulling her face and Jason hates himself for questioning if it’s genuine. 

The smile on Thomas’ face falls off slowly and the older man looks uncomfortable before glancing surreptitiously at his watch. 

“Er, I gotta run,” he says, pulling close to Martha and giving her a kiss on the cheek. There’s nothing inappropriate about the gesture but Jason finds himself glancing away, heat rising to his cheeks, feeling like he an intruder. 

“Sir?” Alfred asks, exasperated as Thomas flees – exits – the kitchen. Thomas turns back and Alfred points to a brown bag that undoubtedly packs a lunch. Thomas gives a strained smile before snatching it and shuffling quickly out the door that leads to the garage. 

Martha frowns after him but turns back to Jason with the same bright smile. “Tea?” she asks. 

“Oh, er – “ Jason flounders for a moment, trying to figure out why he came in here and how to retreat. 

Martha turns to Alfred. “Tea,” she says firmly. Alfred gives a small smile, setting down his own cup and moving to get up from his spot at the kitchen table, the New York Times crossword half completed in pen splayed in front of him. 

“No! I got it,” Jason jumps before the older man can get out of his seat. Damn it all if he was going to make Alfred, even an Alfred that isn’t his, serve him tea. 

Jason can feel Martha and Alfred’s eyes bore into his back as he goes to pull a mug from the cabinet. Tension creeps up into his back. 

Jason turns back to a beaming Martha and a wide-eyed Alfred. He freezes, feet away from the tea pot. 

Martha comes over and grabs it, pouring a cup. Her smile doesn’t fade. 

“You know where the cups are,” she says, handing the tea back to him. Jason takes it numbly. 

“Oh,” he says stupidly. 

Martha’s eyes dance green. “I suppose this is a little strange for you,” she says gesturing around the kitchen. Alfred pulls closer, crossword abandoned but his eyes curious, not wary. 

“Er, I don’t really live at the Manor anymore,” Jason denies immediately. He sees Martha’s smile falter slightly and wants to slap himself on the forehead. 

Martha purses his lips for a moment and takes a sip of her tea. 

“You lived here growing up then?” she asks, innocuous eyes glittering with those curious green flecks. 

Jason hesitates. “B, uh, adopted me when I was 12,” is all he manages. 

Her smile is back. “B?” she asks, voice . . . teasing? Jason can only nod. 

When her eyes flicker back to his, they are a deeper brown. She sighs. “Sometimes I worry that we weren’t good parents to Bruce,” she says simply. 

Jason’s gaze shoots over with what he can only assume is an incredulous look. 

Martha smiles softly. “You seem surprised.” Understatement of the year. 

“Well . . . yeah. All I heard from him was how amazing you both were.” Jason pauses. “Are,” he corrects awkwardly. In the corner of his eye, Jason can see Alfred pull away and slip out of the room. 

“Were,” Martha agrees, nodding and sipping her tea again, settling into the counter like this is a completely normal conversation. “It’s ‘were.’ Death always paints with a rosy brush. It’s a good day when I remember what a little brat Bruce used to be,” she laughs. Jason splutters. 

“A brat?” He repeats, smiling against his will now. Martha nods enthusiastically. 

“Oh yes. The juice box fiasco of ’92 still haunts Alfred to this day.” 

Jason lets Martha’s easy smile and sparkling eyes wash over him and he scoots closer, everything else about the morning forgotten. “Tell me,” he says. 

Martha’s smile pulls wide and her eyes dance again with flecks of green. “Bruce always had trouble making friends in school. He was so much smarter than the other boys, it intimidated them.” Jason wonders what she would think of Brucie Wayne. “Because of that, he always tried too hard to fit in. Wear whatever brand shoes were popular. Have the newest haircut,” she waves dismissively. “That sort of thing.” Typical of a kid, but Jason can’t help but fight to reconcile this kid who wanted to fit in with the Batman, always determined to stand apart. 

“But one thing that never changed is that he always loved the lunches I made him. He never even let Alfred do it, claimed he didn’t cut the bread the right way,” she says. Jason suspects it was a ruse. He remembers when Catherine used to pack his lunch in the mornings, every morning. Even if someone replicated the exact food and style, it just wouldn’t have been the same. 

“He loved this particular juice and I always made sure Alfred bought it when he went to the store.” Martha pauses dramatically. 

“So, you can imagine my surprise when on the first day of third grade, he comes home and announced he will absolutely not be drinking juice anymore and will only accept bottled water in his lunches.” Her eyes sparkle mischievously at the memory. 

“I learned later in the large maturity leap between second and third grade, juice boxes suddenly became ‘children’s drinks.’ Of course, we had _crates_ of this juice in the pantry and no one else in the house was going to drink it.” 

Jason lets a smile slip onto his own face now. 

“So, I pack him juice the next day and when I drop him off, I find the box on the seat of the car. He’d removed it from his lunch box.” Martha shakes her head. “I confronted him about it when he got home, and he simply said he no longer liked the juice. I told him I would pack him water once we ran out of the juice in the pantry.” She gives Jason a sidelong glance, prompting his input. 

“Seems reasonable,” he says. Martha nods satisfactorily. 

“I thought so too. But the next day when I packed him a juice, he left it on the counter. I told him all he was doing was prolonging the process, I wasn’t going to throw out full juice boxes, so the next day he pokes a hole in the box and empties it into the sink.” 

“Why didn’t he just throw it out when he got to school?” Jason asks, sort of already knowing the answer. Martha smiles. 

“Oh, that just wouldn’t do. It was a matter of _principle_ at this point.” Of course, it was. 

“I was in a battle of wills with a seven-year-old. And I was losing,” Martha admits remorsefully, shaking her head. “It was only a matter of time before he finally figured out all he had to do was get rid of all the juice in the pantry.” 

“He threw them all away?” Jason guesses. 

Martha purses her. “He burned them,” she says. 

A startled laugh escapes through Jason’s lips and after a moment of resistance, he lets it fall into a steady chuckle. Martha’s own tinkle laugh chimes in until Jason catches his breath enough to ask, “why, dear God, did he do that?” 

Martha composes herself as well. “Apparently, Alfred had threatened him if he threw them out, he would be forced to drink garbage juice, which was infinitely worse than regular juice.” She laughs again. “The threat backfired.” 

Jason allows himself to huff out another laugh, not able to stop himself from smiling at the story. “You seem like a good mother,” he says, and Martha sobers at his words. 

She sighs. “Oh, there were plenty of times I wasn’t. Thomas was always so busy with work back then. Bruce was so young, and Thomas was still trying to get a fellowship by the time he started school. I was always a little bitter, having to give up my career to stay home and take care of Bruce. I started getting into the Foundation, work I found I truly loved, but it just meant less time I could spend at home.” She sighs remorsefully. “You always think you have time. Time later. Time for the important things.” Martha looks down at her empty teacup and frowns, reaching back and grapping the pot for a second cup. 

A balloon expands in Jason’s throat and he struggles to breath. Tickets flash in his mind, and the deep calming voice so close to Thomas Wayne’s promises Jason things like _a day off_ , and _just us_ , and _first baseball game_. He and Bruce had tickets to see the Gotham Knights when he’d died. 

He wonders now what Bruce ever did with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not confirm or deny if this juice story has any basis in reality.


	10. The Pariah

Tim isn’t _hiding_. He’s working. Seclusion is simply an unintended benefit. 

Besides, Tim doesn’t mind the silence. At least _this_ silence. The silence that had been held in the room before Jason left, more corporeal than the apparitional quiet that settles over Tim now, had sucked the air out of Tim’s lungs, phantom hands wrapping around his neck. 

Tim still remembers the awkward silence of his early days as Robin, Batman’s startled hesitation every time Tim made a move, the pain behind his eyes sticking Tim’s own words in his throat, the quiet hanging between them like a ghost. Tim could deal with the icy silence of later patrols after occasional but particularly vicious arguments, unspoken words somehow saying more than any rebuke or quarrel could ever hope to convey. He had long since gotten used to the disquieting silence of his primary school days, empty echoes of a house awaiting his parents return with just as much demurred expectancy as he. 

He craved silence at Titans Tower and breathed in relief now when he went back to the Manor and found it empty except for the light footfalls of Alfred, ever-present and comforting. The quiet in his Nest helped him work and the silence at his apartment in the city was familiar, if bittersweet. 

The quiet now is soothing rather than stifling. The distant burst of laughter Tim can trace with his mind to the kitchen, a slight echo giving the location away, lulls Tim into a rhythm as he carefully pulls the wiring out from the multiverse gun, removing the side panel in a vain attempt identify what each is connected to. He’ll likely have to pull the bottom off as well. 

Tim isn’t stupid. That was probably an understatement. But trying to fix the multiverse gun was making him _feel_ stupid. The two bullets had done significant damage to the device, one tearing through the top part of the gun, ripping wiring but not much else, and the other lodging itself in a circuit board Tim was pretty sure helped stabilize the fluctuations experienced when universe hoping, at least based on location. The latter was the real problem. He’d been able to strip one of Hood’s circuit boards from his helmet before the bomb fiasco at the hospital but now it was a matter of reattaching and rewiring the gun, so it operated in congruence with the code. 

Kind of like being given a cake recipe and using it to try and build an oven. 

It wasn’t going well. 

So, he is _working_. 

Or trying to. 

Laughter floats back up to Tim and guilt is a tide in his chest, waning and waxing. He can hear Martha chime in occasionally, so he knows the two are talking but any distinguishable conversation is lost in the distance and between shut doors. 

Tim should apologize. 

His mind keeps wandering back to the conversation he’d had with Jason that morning, although calling the exchange a conversation was probably being generous considering the absolute lack of reaction Jason had given anything he’d said and then the sudden explosive _reaction_ , Jason’s hands still shaking from anger even as the older boy stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. Tim can’t let himself off the hook simply because someone else was there to clean up his mess. 

A knock on the door pulls Tim from his self-deprecating spiral and Tim realizes the laughter has gone silent downstairs for a while. Jason’s head pokes in and Tim’s throat tightens with guilt. 

“Alfred made lunch,” Jason says with a casual shrug and an easy smile. Did Tim hallucinate this morning? That was Jason who stormed out of the room, hands shaking in a rage he was barely able to control, right? 

“Oh, right,” Tim says, the words awkward off his tongue. _Apologize_. “I – “ 

“How’s it coming?” Jason says nodding to the device Tim is running another simulation on. He needs to figure out how much of the code is active before he starts simply reattaching wires at random. He was in over his head. 

Wait. Was this question . . . _Jason’s_ way of apologizing? Tim glances at the older boy, eyes not quite meeting his own and hands shoved into his pockets. 

He _was_ trying to apologize. Huh. 

“The time travel aspect of this device is totally fried,” Tim says, and he hopes the answer is like an apology of his own. Jason meets his eyes. Apology accepted. 

“What the hell does that mean?” 

“Well, more accurately, I had to disable it for parts. Considering we don’t have your helmet to work with anymore thank you very much.” 

Jason grins. “Sorry.” 

Tim shakes his head, a small smile pulling at his lips. “You are absolutely not sorry.” 

Jason shrugs. “So, you used the tech you’re trying to fix for spare parts?” 

Tim frowns. “It’s a delicate situation,” he admits. 

“All I’m hearing is there was no reason to strip my helmet in the first place.” A narrowing of Jason’s eyes but no venom in the tone. Tim rolls his eyes. 

Jason scoots closer, trying to catch what program Tim is running on the tablet. “What does ‘delicate situation’ mean?” he finally asks, curiosity winning out. 

Tim hums noncommittally. “It probably means that when we travel back the same amount of time will have passed in our universe as it has here, rather like a typical multiverse device rather than the added temporal component.” 

“Probably?” 

“Hopefully?” 

“That’s worse!” 

Tim lets his face pull into a smile, tension at the base of his spine easing away. He sets the gun and tablet down and heads to the door. 

“What’s for lunch?” Tim asks. Jason groans. 

“Probably something disgustingly healthy,” the older boy mutters as Tim follows him down the stairs. 

It turns out, what was for lunch was, in fact, something healthy. Tim was going to let Jason take the 'disgusting' part up with Alfred. Tim didn’t mind. In fact, this Alfred’s food was almost the exact same Tim grew up with at the Manor, the familiar taste a comforting ache and nothing at all like the easy quick meals he’s taken to making himself at his own apartment. Jason didn’t actually seem to mind either, his complaints more of a joking tease toward Martha that after days of hospital food the two were now conspiring to withhold anything greasy. 

It sounded like an inside joke; one Tim wasn’t sure of the origin. It’s strange watching Jason with Martha. He seems more relaxed than Tim’s ever seen him, an easy smile on his face that is nothing like the sardonic grins Tim usually associates with the Red Hood. It is almost like watching an entirely different person, one Tim isn’t or has never been privy to. Maybe more like the Jason in Dick’s stories, the ones the older boy used to tell Tim before Jason came back to life. Never now. Dick and Tim don't talk about Jason now. 

Tim lets Martha carry most of the conversation. Her chatter is an easy flow and he lets Jason responds whenever a pause is long enough it requires intervention because every time Martha looks at him, words catch in his throat. 

This universe was messing with his head. This house was messing with his head. Alfred’s ever constant and deceptively calming presence was messing with his head and the way Martha Wayne looks at him with calming eyes that he knows are cataloging his every move is _messing with his head_. 

He flees back to the silence of his room as soon as lunch is finished. 

Jason finds him there some time after the sun has gone down, picking apart what’s left of the bullet ridden circuit board. Jason’s not exactly known for his tact. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks bluntly. 

“Excuse me?” Tim says before he can figure out if he should be offended or not. 

Jason comes farther into the room, looking more at ease than Tim’s ever seen him. “You’re acting like you just stuck your finger in a light socket, Tim. What’s up?” 

Tim furrows his eyebrow, unsure of how to answer. He pauses for too long and Jason starts up again. 

“Downstairs. At lunch. You barely said a word,” he elaborates slowly like Tim is eighty and going a bit dotty. 

Tim glances up at Jason now. “Jason, I think we should leave,” he says. The older boy blinks in surprise, clearly not expecting that. 

“We came here because we needed medical help, but staying . . . I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Tim continues after a beat of silence. Jason’s eyebrows pinch together, and his eyes narrow at an alarming rate. 

“Why?” he asks slowly. 

Tim bites his lip. “We blew up a hospital, Jason. Thomas Elliot is looking for us.” 

Jason’s frown deepens. “That sounds like a reason to stay,” he points out. “We need somewhere to lie low until we can figure out how to fix your nerd device. You got another place in mind, Timmers?” 

Tim had to resist the urge to rub his temples. “Okay, first. This is not _my_ multiverse gun. Let’s not forget who dragged me into this case in the first place.” 

Jason splutters. “Excuse me. I was chasing down those entanglers on _your_ intel, Timbuktu.” 

“ _You_ asked me to tell you if there was anything sketchy coming through the docks!” 

Jason rolls his eyes. “At least I didn’t tell Tommy Elliot we were from another universe,” he snorts. Actual anger starts bubbling inside Tim, fueled by a cold pit in his stomach. 

“The place was bugged,” he snaps, glaring now at Jason. _And I didn’t even realize it_ , he thinks, guilt bubbling over now, distinguishing the anger quickly. He glances away from Jason throat tight. Jason won’t meet his eyes either, both boys glaring at the floor. 

Tim lets the tension seep from the room and his throat loosens, allowing him to speak. 

“I should have seen the listening devices.” Tim pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out when exactly he lost his ability to think. Jason’s eyes snap to his and after a moment he snorts. 

“Tim, you can’t be serious. Why would you have thought someone was bugging my hospital room? I’m the one who actually saw Hush walking around planting them, I just didn’t recognize what was actually happening at the time,” he bites off the last part bitterly. 

Now Tim glances over in surprise. “Jason, you literally just came out of surgery and were high on pain killers,” he says. Jason gives him a small smile. 

“So, it’s neither of our faults,” he shrugs. “Stop blaming yourself for shit you can’t control,” his voice is light but with just enough edge to it that Tim has to blink at the words, unsure if they are the lead in to a joke or not. 

They aren’t. Jason meets his gaze. Tim opens his mouth, instinct to play the serious moment off with a sarcastic comment jamming in his throat. 

After a moment, he gets his voice back. “Jay, we’re putting them in danger by staying here. If Elliot really is after us, we should stay away.” 

The ghost of a smile on Jason’s face disappears completely and his dark eyes look stormy again, the tension growing in the older boy’s body familiar to Tim though he hates that he brought it back. Jason sighs. 

“Frack. You’re right,” he finally says, running a hand through his hair. He looks about to continue when there is a sharp knock at the door. 

“Um, Sorry,” Thomas Wayne’s voice floats in as the door pops open, hovering half closed. “Is it alright if I come in?” he asks as if this isn’t his house. 

Jason glances at Tim who scrambles up off the floor. “Sure, of course,” Tim says exchanging a wary glance with Jason. 

Thomas pulls the door open and gives a thin smile. “Alfred said you would be up here,” Thomas says, looking at Tim. He holds up a small bottle in one of his hands and his black medical bag in his other. “I wanted to take another look at your cut to make sure the infection hasn’t come back and I have some antibiotics for you,” he says, voice pinched with a worry Tim isn’t sure is warranted. 

“Uh, thanks,” Tim says sincerely, taking the antibiotics and automatically checking the label from habit. Jason hovers behind Tim as he settles on the side of his bed and pulls his pant leg up. 

“Seriously, thank you guys for everything you’ve done for us – “ Tim starts but Thomas clears his throat, cutting Tim off as he bends down, not meeting the younger boy’s eyes. 

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Thomas begins hesitantly and Tim’s stomach drops. Thomas glances up and gives a guilty smile that short circuits Tim’s brain. “But I couldn’t help but overhear you guys talking . . .” Thomas trails off. _Great, so the exact definition of eavesdropping._

Tim stiffens, exchanging a quick glance with Jason who is similarly still behind him. 

Thomas glances up, eyes . . . soft. 

“You boys don’t have to leave,” he says and then frowns. “You _shouldn’t_ leave,” he amends. He glances over at Jason before his eyes flicker back to Tim. “I mean, you both should be staying off your feet – resting,” he adds quickly, shifting his weight nervously. 

“I mean just medically speaking . . . It would be advisable for you to stay here,” Thomas finished awkwardly. There’s a hitch of worry in his voice that takes Tim completely by surprise and he can’t help but feel his mouth fall open at the words. 

“At least until you can fix your. . . universe thing,” Thomas stumbles over the words and it might be a trick of the light, but Tim thinks he can see his cheeks redden. 

“Thank you,” Jason says behind him and Tim twists in surprise. “It shouldn’t take us long?” Jason raises an eyebrow at Tim in a question. 

“A few days,” Tim can feel his mouth move in response but his brain is stuck in molasses. 

Thomas glances up, a small smile brightening his face as if Tim just agreed to something. Did he? Thomas’ gaze shifts over to Jason. 

“Martha’s downstairs pestering Alfred into letting her help with dinner,” he says, the grin now growing, stretching wider. Jason seems to take the dismissal with an easy shrug. 

“Sounds like she needs help,” he says, and he slips from the room. 

Thomas finishes applying fresh bandages and sits back, eyes guarded again. “How long have you had asplenia?” He asks, and Tim struggles to keep a blank expression. 

“About a year,” he replies, unsure of where Thomas is going with this. The older man nods to Tim’s stomach. 

“Can I see the scar?” He asks. It takes everything inside Tim not to blink, instead silently pulling up his shirt to show the jagged scar near his navel. He glances away and Thomas peers closer. 

“Was it done in a hospital?” He asks, gloved fingers hovering above Tim’s skin. There is a lump in Tim’s throat as he shakes his head. 

“The cut is pretty clean but there’s a lot of scar tissue,” Thomas murmurs. He glances back up at Tim. “Any residual pain?” Tim shakes his head again, not able to meet Thomas’ gentle gaze. 

“Have you regularly been on antibiotics?” Tim nods this time and Thomas seems satisfied, so he lets his shirt drop back down. 

Thomas pulls his gloves off. His gaze is cast downwards, and he sits in front of Tim for a moment in quiet. He clearly wants to say something else, maybe ask something else, and even though Tim wants to run from the room, he forces himself to wait instead. 

When Thomas speaks his voice is quiet. 

“I have to ask you something,” he starts, jaw working back and forth. Tim’s heart pounds in his chest, mind whirling with possibilities. 

“Okay,” Tim says, mouth dry. Thomas Wayne won’t meet his eyes. 

The older man hesitates, and Tim almost hopes he changes his mind. Tim’s own thoughts are spinning, trying to figure out what this conversation is. 

“You and Jason . . .” he hesitates. “Your scars,” Thomas tries again slowly. Finally, his darkened eyes rise to meet Tim’s own. “Did Bruce . . .” his voice hitches and Thomas can’t seem to finish the question. 

Tim’s eyes widen in horror. “No,” he says immediately, firmly. Thomas’ shoulders relax but the question still lingers in his gaze. His eyes flicker to Tim’s neck and Tim reaches up reflexively at it, belatedly trying to cover the faint purple slivers. 

“Jason,” Tim pauses for a second. “I shouldn’t have woken him up like I did.” He meets Thomas’ eyes. “But . . . listen. Bruce took us all in from messed up situations. Jason’s is a little more messed up than most.” 

He can’t seem to reassure Thomas that Jason’s nightmares aren’t Bruce’s fault because . . . well, he’s not sure Jason feels that way. Other than his angry outburst this morning, Tim has always tried to steer away from Bruce and Batman and Robins when talking with Jason, and honestly Tim wishes he had just deflected earlier as well. 

“Is he talking to someone?” Thomas asks and the question gives Tim pause. _Who_ does _Jason talk to?_ Definitely not a therapist, Tim doesn’t even have to think long about that. If it wasn’t Bruce’s psychological training or the general aversion to psychiatrists in Gotham, it was definitely Jason’s own experiences in Arkham that would have turned the older boy off of anyone poking around in his brain. But who does he call or talk to on a regular basis? Tim knows Donna isn’t in contact with him, the two hadn’t spoken since their multiverse misadventures nearly two years ago. Dick was out of the question, the two weren’t exactly close before Jason went into the pit and time had not aged their relationship well. Definitely not Bruce and last Tim checked, Alfred hadn’t seen Jason in over a year. 

Tim has a sinking feeling in his gut, thinking back to the cryptic calls and random messages he’s received in the past six months. The time Jason showed up randomly at his safe house with a deep cut on his back that he couldn’t stitch. 

Thomas just huffs at Tim’s silence and it sounds so much like Bruce, Tim’s head actually snaps up at the noise. Thomas is looking at him warily, like he isn’t sure he’s ready to believe Tim. All Tim can do is hold under the gaze, explanations sticking in his throat. The scars on Tim’s body are a road map of his life and he’s . . . _proud_ of them. But he remembers how Steph struggled to wear swimsuits after her C-Section. How she still feels self-conscious about the marks that litter her skin. Tim has spent most of his teenage years hiding scars from his family. Even at Titans Tower, Tim’s careful about revealing the white and pink lines that wrap around his body, his superpowered friends sometimes off put at the sheer amount of scarring that Tim’s human body memorializes, a record of his career and a testament of the path he _chose_. 

And Tim can only guess what Jason’s body probably looks like, scars washed clean from the Lazarus Pit but new ones quickly and carelessly added in the years since. Tim wonders if that’s why Jason feels so detached from the boy who used to be Robin, the lines that told his story washed away in a dark cave by boiling green waters. Tim can barely remember his skin without scars, and he knows if they were taken away, he’d feel like a piece of himself was missing. Lost. 

Finally, Thomas’ eyes melt into something hopeful and curious. 

“All of you?” he asks slowly. Tim forces a small smile on his face, thankful for the change in subject and praying his half answers were enough to stave off any more questions. 

“There are five of us,” Tim starts as Thomas helps him up and the two begin to descend down the stairs. “Well at least that Bruce has officially adopted. . .” 

A comforting smell wafting from the kitchen pulls Tim closer and for the first time, his heart forgets to ache at the familiarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be clear, this is Post-Crisis continuity and Pre-New52, so nothing with Jason and the Outlaws is canon here. However, his adventures with Donna and Kyle Rayner (as alluded to earlier) _are_ canon.


	11. The Phantom

It shouldn’t be so surprising that the room is unlocked but when a sharp turn of the handle gives way to no resistance, Jason Todd has to pause before pushing the door open. 

He’s not quite sure what he’s doing here. 

The semantic answer to that question is obvious. After hours spent hovering around Tim earlier in the morning, the quick task of stripping wires easily completed, innocuous questions had proven an entertaining way to irritate the younger boy. The enjoyment was short lived as Jason’s absentminded fiddling with wires that he _definitely_ did not know were connected to a live circuit _accidentally_ resulted in Tim getting _slightly_ electrocuted. Really, it was barely Jason’s fault. Tim didn’t appear to agree and subsequently dragged Jason out of the room and locked the door behind himself, muttering the entire way about ‘Bruce’s stupid rules.’ 

Unfortunately, Martha had decided to spend the afternoon gardening, which Jason really would have been fine with except Thomas had expressly forbidden him from physical exertion lest he rip his stitches again. To make it worse, Martha had this funny thing about not bleeding out in her flowers bed, a concern that was shared by Alfred who attempted to keep Jason entertained in the meantime, only to be immediately whisked away in a ‘dryer emergency’ that had held Jason’s attention for all of five seconds. 

And that was how he found himself wandering the Manor, cataloging the slight changes between this Manor and the one he remembered from five years ago, brain stuttering on the time gap so many times it was less of reoccurring consideration and more of an ever-present thought, haunting each observation, guilt and anger growing in his stomach with equal ferity leaving Jason unable to differentiate the two emotions. 

And then he came across the door. _His_ door. 

The one to a room he hadn’t stepped foot in since packing a meager bag for Ethiopia and leaving in the middle of the night, his stupid naïve fifteen-year-old brain afflicted with delusions of a mother who missed him and bitter about a father who he knew would simply never understand. 

And the door is unlocked. 

Logically, there is no reason it shouldn’t be. This is simply a spare room in a house of spare rooms, not any more distinguishable from the one next to it. He knew that. He _knew_ it. But here he was, some deep driven desire – no, demand – to open the door and face demons that were literally a universe away. 

And it isn’t even locked. 

Jason pushes the door open. 

The room looks like the rest of the house, which is to say, straight from a Philippa Gregory catalog. The furnishings are exquisite, the dressers ornate, the curtains satin. The type of room a twelve-year-old Jason would have been wide-eyed with wonder at, the type that makes a twenty-year-old Jason simply scoff at the indulgence. It's clean, with vacuum marks on the carpet that tell Jason the room in not only unused, but untouched. Pristine. The paintings that hang on the wall don’t allow any character to leech into the cold atmosphere and the room stands before Jason like a painting itself: distant, historic, and absolutely impersonable. 

It looks like a guest room. 

Maybe that’s all it ever was. 

“We don’t use this room much,” a voice behind Jason makes him jump and he’s tense when he spins around, fists clenched, not used to being snuck up on. Thomas Wayne’s blue eyes blink back in surprise at the reaction. 

Jason tries to relax but the way Thomas looks at him keeps him tense, even as he stretches out his fingers, tapping them against his empty thigh to stop them from twitching restlessly. 

“Yeah,” Jason says because that’s all he can think to say. Thomas’ unobtrusive gaze raises his hackles, the quiet too familiar to Bruce’s disappointed frown and brooding silence to let Jason rest easy under the clear blue eyes, even if they hold a softness Bruce would never allow himself to show. The older man has been skirting around Jason in the past day and a half and while Martha’s easy presence had been something Jason allowed himself to fall into, the wary and distant company of the man before him was not something Jason was ready to submit to. And he had thought the feeling was mutual. 

“Is it different in your world?” the man asks, and the words roll off Thomas’ tongue a little clumsily, his brain not quite used to the thought. Jason turns back to the empty room. It looks dead. Without a sign of life. 

“I don’t know,” Jason answers truthfully, voice soft. Thomas is behind him and Jason isn’t quite sure what emotions flicker about the older man but when Thomas speaks again, his voice is equally quiet. 

“To be honest, we don’t use this side of the _house_ much,” the man says. “Bruce’s room was at the end of the hall. Except for me, I think Alfred is the only one who comes over here anymore.” 

Jason tears his eyes away from the blank room to give Thomas a confused frown. He doesn’t even have to ask the question before Thomas continues, nodding down the hall to where Bruce’s room at the Manor is. 

“I used to come and sit outside of Bruce’s room,” he says. He gives a shrug that looks more like a jerk. “Not as much anymore,” his voice is drenched with guilt. His gaze fixes on the door at the end of the hall. “Only when it gets too easy.” 

Jason follows his gaze to the door. He doesn’t know why it surprises him that Bruce’s room is the same, but his brain is stuck on this detail, important for some reason. Jason has seen Bruce’s room, larger than it has any right to be with a walk-in closet and a huge bath. In any other house it would surely be the Master bedroom, but of course, that was Martha and Thomas’ room. And Bruce had never moved in. Staying instead in his childhood bedroom, revamped surely over the years, but a constant amongst the turmoil and change. 

It irks Jason that he spent three years in this house and he never thought to sneak into the Master suite. He wonders if it looks like this room, as empty and dead as the Thomas and Martha of his world. 

“Easy?” Jason asks, voice emotionless. He wants to go over to the door to young Bruce’s room and open it, but his traitorous feet remain rooted to the floor. 

Thomas glances at him, stormy eyes unreadable. “Some days it gets easy and there are even moments where I forget. Really early in the morning or after a long surgery. Sometimes even when I’m just eating breakfast. I’ll just . . . forget.” Thomas clears his throat and glances away. “I’ll come and sit outside his door for a while to . . .” Thomas trails off now, unsure how to finish the sentence. Jason waits for a moment, but the older man doesn’t continue. 

Jason glances back at the Bruce’s door, suddenly wanting to back away. “To what?” Jason asks and his voice is hard with iron, but he can’t stop the words from pouring out. “Punish yourself?” he spits out. It’s an accusation but Thomas only considers the words with a tilt of his head and nods slowly. 

“Maybe,” he admits, and Jason’s anger is thrown off-kilter by the honesty. Bruce’s door now seems to loom in the distance, casting a shadow on the hallway and juxtaposed with the relative bright colors of the guest room, Jason almost wants to slip inside this room that isn’t his, if only to banish Bruce’s door from his sight. 

“Why don’t you ever go in?” Jason asks quietly, feeling a need to whisper now. The house feels colder somehow, in this corner of it and Jason involuntarily shivers. 

Almost a full minute of silence passes before Thomas finally answers and when he does, it’s indirect, leaving Jason’s mind scrambling to make the connection to his original question. 

“When I used to get home late, after working, Martha had always already put Bruce to bed,” Thomas says. His eyes are back on Bruce’s door and he sees something that Jason doesn’t, eyes alight with a dim sparkle. “He was a light sleeper, but he snored,” the ghost of a smile flickers across Thomas’ face but disappears before Jason can be sure of what he saw. “I would just sit out here and listen to his breathing.” 

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Hell of a way to torture yourself, doc,” Jason says, sarcastic comment biting from his mouth before the boy can stop it. Thomas actually gives a small laugh and smiles, shaking his head. He takes a step into the guest room and looks around it, face unreadable. He ventures forward, turning to sit on the bed and before Jason can think about what he is doing, he follows, leaning on the soft unused mattress beside Thomas, who doesn’t look at him. 

The room doesn’t feel as cold as the hallway and definitely not as cold as Bruce’s door. The two sit in silence for a full minute before Thomas speaks. 

“No, it’s not like that,” he says simply, and then his eyes flicker over to Jason. Tears pool at the edges. Jason freezes at the sight of them and Thomas smiles thinly through the pain. 

“I need those moments. Where it’s real for me,” the tears are falling down Thomas face, and Jason cannot move. Thomas’ voice is hoarse, but he continues to talk through it after a shaky breath. “At the beginning, sometimes I wondered if I was grieving enough for Bruce. I was trying to be strong and I pushed a lot of my grief down, I wasn’t talking to anyone about it.” 

Jason’s heart picks up, a fight or flight response kicking in and every part of Jason screams _run._

“I wasn’t free. I was trying to be strong, for Martha, and I kept my guard up and kept everything to myself, refusing to speak about what happened.” Thomas is definitely looking at him, but Jason’s vision is blurry, and he stares at the door to the room, willing himself to move toward it but he _cannot_ move. 

“Coming outside his door lets me feel the depth of the loss. A memorial or a reminder of it all. Because the loss _is_ deep. I’m a father who lost a son,” Thomas voice cracks and he wraps one hand around the other tightly. 

Jason absolutely cannot speak. There is glass and gold and a plaque in a cave, and he cannot _think_. 

“And I’ll keep feeling that loss as long as I need to because I loved him.” 

There is definitely a hand on Jason’s shoulder, but he can barely feel it. 

“But I still needed to talk to someone,” Thomas says quietly. 

Jason isn’t exactly sure how long the two sit there but eventually Thomas leaves. He might have said something on the way out, he might have simply left without a word. Jason stays on the bed until his hands stop shaking and his vision clears, and he regains enough of his bodily functions to lift himself onto his feet and walk toward the door. 

He turns toward the room at the end of the hall. A memorial, Thomas had said. 

He walks over and reaches for the door handle. 

But the room is locked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard chapter for me to write but I really wanted this conversation between a son who died and a father who lost his son. I am not a parent nor have I ever lost a child but I tried to draw from my own experiences to write Thomas here and I hope he came off as authentic.


	12. The Portent

Leslie Tompkins’ alarm goes off at 4:15 in the morning, but she’s already been awake for hours. She puts on a pot of coffee, takes a cold five-minute shower, and pops half a bagel into her toaster while filling up her travel mug. 

Silence echoes in her small one-bedroom apartment, and little changes in it between the time her bagel pops out of the toaster and long after she has grabbed her coat and bag, pulled the small door shut behind her and twisted the knob so it locks. Empty. 

She opens the clinic in silence, the new receptionist she hired won’t come in until closer to five and her staff will show up slowly after. She busies herself checking the equipment and doing inventory. 

When the receptionist comes in at 4:50 a murmured hello is the first word Leslie Tompkins speaks in nearly twelve hours. 

And she’s tired. 

She’s so tired. She’s tired of this self-imposed exile and she’s tired of this hell of her own personal making. The receptionist pulls out a book that Leslie faintly recognizes but she can’t remember the last time she just sat and read, letting silence sooth rather than suffocate her. 

It’s then that her phone buzzes. 

Leslie watches the device vibrate on the counter for a moment, blank stare slowly trying to make sense of the sound. The receptionist looks up from her book – Leslie can see now it’s _The Insufferable Gaucho_ – and says, 

“Dr. Tompkins?” And it’s enough to spur Leslie into action and she grabs the phone, glancing down at the screen display. 

She recognizes the number. It’s not one she’s had occasion to call in a long time. She presses accept. 

“Thomas,” she answers flatly. 

  


* * *

  


It isn’t until the doorbell rings at seven the next morning that Tim realizes he stayed up all night. 

The first indication really should have been the morning sun seeping through the curtains, scattered light not actually reaching the corner of the room Tim is slumped in, face heating what was at one point a cool wall while he watches another simulation run through the multiverse gun. The work was either mind boggling or mind numbing, there was no in between, and Tim’s brain feels like a rubber band, stretched to its limits and then snapped back, left with absolutely nothing to do but wait for more information. 

Maybe that’s why, when the he hears the faint chimes of the doorbell, he has already pushed himself onto his feet, mind needing a break from the numbers, eyes needing a break from the screen, and legs needing to move, to do something that at least _feels_ productive. 

And it’s not like he is _spying_. He’s just eavesdropping. Because he’s worried. 

God, is this how Bruce rationalizes everything? 

Not a happy thought. 

He can hear Alfred pull the door open and his voice is surprised, but too far away for Tim to make out what he is saying. As Tim creeps closer, a gruff voice answers, “Alfred,” and Tim freezes. He knows that voice. Knows it like the musky smell of a cigar or a shadow against a searchlight. And despite logic telling Tim he should be worried, a warm feeling spreads through his body and a smile cracks on the younger boy’s face. 

“Jim!” Martha Wayne calls and Tim can hear her footsteps grow louder until they echo below him in the foyer. “It’s been too long, come in, come in. How’s Barbara?” 

“Good, good,” Jim Gordon says, almost mumbling. “She’s good.” 

Martha sounds like she’s smiling. “I know that voice,” she says. “Boy trouble?” 

Jim chuckles. “I don’t know why I even try to be subtle around you. You could give some of my best men the run around.” 

“Only the men?” Martha asks back innocently. 

“It’s a trap, Jim. Don’t say anything else,” Thomas says, voice booming with a chuckle and Tim can hear the two men hug. “What can we do for you? Water? Tea? Something stronger?” 

“Thomas, it’s seven in the morning!” Martha chides. 

“I’m fine,” Jim cuts in before Thomas can respond. “Just a short visit, I won’t be staying long.” 

“Good man. What can we do for you?” Thomas asks again. 

Tim can hear Jim sigh and he imagines the older man shifting back and forth, scratching the back of his neck nervously, as if he’s on the rooftop of a building under the murky skies of Gotham about to tell Batman the GCPD can't pull enough evidence together to get a conviction. 

“Well, to be honest, I was hoping to come with better news,” Jim says. “It’s about the incident at the hospital.” 

“Should I go into the other room and pretend not to know about the bomb?” Martha asks, picking up on the ambiguity. 

Another chuckle from Jim but no one responds verbally. Tim hears retreating footsteps. 

“We still haven’t been able to find Elliot,” Jim says in a low voice after Martha leaves. “We tracked down the stolen sedan to a bus stop in Sommerset, it’s likely that the boys left Gotham. There were busses that night leaving for New York, Philadelphia, Camden. We just don’t know. We have checkpoints everywhere, though. Boots on the ground in case they doubled back. Plastered their faces in every gas station from here to Metropolis. We’ll know if they try to get back into the city.” 

“And Tommy?” Thomas asks, voice equally hushed. 

Tim can hear Jim sigh. “Nothing. He might have flown back east, might still be in Gotham. Could have gone back to Philly. We just don’t know.” 

There is a moment of silence between the two men and Tim holds his breath as to not make any noise. Finally, Jim speaks again. 

“Does she know? About Elliot?” he asks. 

Thomas sighs. “You know her, Jim. What do you think?” 

More silence seeps through the house and Tim tries not to shift from his position, wishing he could see the foyer below him. 

“How are you doing, Jim,” Thomas asks wearily. 

“Good, good. Barbara’s good,” Jim responds absentmindedly, voice distant and unfocused. 

“I asked about you, Jim. How’s the new job?” Thomas says and Tim can hear him clasp Jim on the shoulder, grounding the man. 

“Old job technically,” Jim replies, a smile in his voice now. “But yeah, I guess it is new. Whole new challenge trying to rebuild this damn city.” 

“How are you?” 

There’s some grumbling. “It’s hell,” he finally says. 

“Well, it’s Gotham,” Thomas replies. There’s a soft laugh at that. 

“Yeah it is.” 

There’s a moment of silence before Jim speaks again, “I saw it was your ambulances that picked those kids up.” 

“Yeah.” 

“They didn’t wait for a police escort.” 

“No.” 

“There are still bad people in Gotham, Thomas. And a hell of a lot of them are in the Bowery and Crime Alley.” 

“There are still good people in Gotham, Jim,” Thomas shoots back. “Everywhere.” 

Some more grumbling. Tim’s throat closes at the exchange. It’s achingly familiar and yet entirely wrong. 

“Call if you have any trouble,” Jim says after a moment. “If those boys show up again or Elliot surfaces, or, hell, some new and terrifying horror that only Gotham could conjure washes up on your doorstep.” 

“You’re on speed dial.” 

“Yeah, okay. Give Martha my regards.” 

“I will. Be safe, Jim.” 

There’s more grumbling and the opening of a door only to be pulled shut a second later. Silence washes through the house. 

“I hate lying to him,” Martha says. 

“Christ!” Thomas yelps and there is the slight clatter of a table being bumped into and muffled laughter. “Were you there the whole time?” Thomas asks, incredulous. 

Martha’s laughter gets louder. “Oh, that poor man wouldn’t be able to tell if someone walked away mid-conversation,” she laughs. “You boys make it too easy.” 

Thomas sighs and Martha laughs again. “Come on, old man. Alfie put on a pot of coffee.” 

“What, did you two drink all the tea in this house?” Thomas teases. 

“Watch it, I’m being nice to you,” Martha threatens, and Tim can hear the smile in her voice. He stays at the top of the stairs for a moment, cheek resting on the cool wall. He closes his eyes, exhaustion pulling him back to his bedroom but also rooting him to the floor, tugging his eyelids down and wringing the tension from his muscles. 

He’s about to give in and fall asleep right there at the top of the staircase when the faint smell of coffee wafts up to him and stirs his mind back to consciousness. 

He pulls his eyes open and glances back, giving one last longing stare toward his bedroom before climbing down the stairs. 

Tim can hear Thomas laughing about something from the kitchen and Tim hesitates just before turning the corner into the archway, feeling out of place. Martha’s voice cuts off inside. 

“Tim?” she asks, even though he’s behind the wall and she can’t see him yet. He pokes his head around, offering an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, I just . . .” he trails off. Part of him _really_ wants to disappear. Martha’s smile brightens. 

“Tea?” she asks nodding to the pot that Alfred takes off the stove, and the older man turns to get three mugs from the cabinet. Martha’s smile turns soft. 

“Or Jason said you actually prefer coffee?” she asks. 

The offer makes Tim pause. Technically, she wasn’t wrong. While his middle school years were often filled with shared cups of tea in this very kitchen, late nights or early mornings spent conspiring with Alfred over a steaming cup, Tim usually forwent the beverage in favor of the much more concentrated dose of caffeine coffee brought, either when rushing to work in the morning or late at night in the Cave, pouring over paperwork. 

Not only that, but _Jason_ had said Tim liked coffee? Tim wasn’t entirely sure how Jason knew that. He certainly wasn’t privy to Tim’s morning routine and Tim couldn’t remember ever mentioning it to the older boy. Aside from that, when had it come up in a conversation for Jason to tell Martha? 

Martha’s still looking at him expectantly, so he shakes off the train of thought and gives a thin smile. “You don’t grow up around Alfred for five years and not learn to love tea,” he replies, coming farther into the kitchen to accept the cup Alfred hands to him. 

Martha grins back at him. “Tell that to him,” she nods to Thomas who pours himself a cup of coffee into a travel mug in the corner. 

“I’ll be back by dinner,” Thomas says leaning in for a kiss for Martha before grabbing a bag on the counter with a significant look at Alfred and heading out the door. 

“I, uh,” Tim hesitates. “Should go work on the multiverse gun.” 

Martha’s gaze is unreadable for a moment as she tilts her head to the side. Then, a small smile spreads across her face. “You could work in the study today,” she offers. “There’s probably better light and I was going to read.” 

Tim’s frozen, unsure exactly what she’s asking of him and his minds spins with possibilities. Does she want to talk to him about something? Ask him questions about his universe? Does she want to see what he’s working on or monitor him for some reason? Martha stares back with twinkling eyes and a soft smile. 

“Yeah, sure,” Tim says, mouth compelled to move against his will. 

That’s how he finds himself, sometime later, sprawled on the floor of the study staring at the ceiling wondering why he’s never had occasion to look up at it before, waiting for another simulation to run through while Martha Wayne curls in the corner on the couch, a small paperback book bent over, hiding the cover. 

It takes ten whole minutes before Tim’s curiosity finally wins out. 

“What are you reading?” He asks quietly, thinking that if Martha doesn’t want to talk, she can always pretend not to hear him. Instead, she glances up with a smile. 

“Don Quijote,” she says, pulling back the book to show Tim the cover, in original Spanish. 

Tim smiles. “You should talk with Jason,” he says. “He loves books like that.” 

Martha’s eyes twinkle a little and she tilts her head to the side. “You two seem close,” she says. The smile falls off Tim’s face and he glances away. Martha doesn’t say anything, but her unassailing gaze doesn’t leave Tim either. 

“Er, we weren’t really growing up,” he stumbles out. _At first because Jason was dead, and then because he was_ not _dead_. “Bruce didn’t adopt me until I was sixteen,” he finally manages, which wasn’t a _lie_ but if Martha drew wrong conclusions from that admission, he wasn’t going to correct them. 

Martha only hums thoughtfully. “What do you like?” she asks instead and the question absolutely floors Tim. 

“What?” he repeats stupidly. Martha only smiles. 

“What do you like to do? When you aren’t,” she gestures to the exposed circuitry of the multiverse gun on the floor. “building universe jumping machines.” 

The edges of Tim’s mouth twitch up. “Technically, I’m only repairing this,” Tim says. “I would have no clue how to build one of these.” 

Martha’s grin widens. “Do you like engineering then?” she asks. “Is that what you want to do when you get older?” 

When he gets older? Tim wants to laugh. With the life he led, the more likely question is _if_ he gets older. But he isn’t about to say that. 

And Tim isn’t exactly sure what to do with this line of inquiry. Sure, he _liked_ engineering. He has taken over most of the responsibilities of running the R&D department at Wayne Enterprise and he actually enjoys a lot of the work. But it isn’t something he does in his free time. 

Part of the difficulty of the question is that Tim can’t remember the last time he _had_ free time. His days were spent either at Wayne Enterprise or in San Francisco with the Titans, and moments in between he was catching up on the never-ending pile of cases he has as Red Robin. If he ever finds spare minutes in his day, he spends them trying to catch up on sleep debt that would cripple most economies. 

But the question that really eats at Tim is the second one. For a kid who always needs a plan, he’s not entirely sure he’s ever given much thought to his future. Or maybe the problem wasn’t too little thought, as the intentional avoidance of obsessive thought. Because thoughts of Tim’s future bring a bitter taste to his mouth, unearthing memories he’d rather keep buried. Memories that involve a gunpowder and despondent cities and a graveyard filled far passed capacity and the tiny seed of fear in Tim’s heart that one day he is going to lose everything and everyone and he knows that if he thinks about his future too much and starts to water that seed the vines will strangle him from the inside. 

And yet, despite this, Tim wasn’t about to become an engineer. The life he got a glimpse of in his day job at Wayne Enterprise seemed far too monotonous, too simple, just too boring after the type of life he’s led. He can’t imagine leaving now and just . . . going to college. What would he do all day? 

But there had been a time, right? There was a time when he had thought this whole life was temporary. That he would do his shift as Robin and then go back to his “real” life. Now, he didn’t even know what that was. Somewhere in between giving the Robin mantle to Stephanie and losing almost everyone he loved, Tim lost the ability to back out of this life. 

And he wouldn’t even _want_ to anymore. He suspects the only thing that will take him out of the game now is the physical inability to continue. And even then, there was always something that he could do. Some way he could help. 

Tim can barely remember what he used to want to do with his life, when he was younger. All he remembers now is what his parents wanted, constant talk about Drake Industries and business and taking over one day, and he remembers always being so frustrated with it all. Had Janet ever asked him what he _wanted_ to do when he got older? 

Tim realizes he’d been staring blankly at Martha for too long and her eyebrows have pulled together in worry. Tim chews his lip. 

“I like photography,” he says finally. Martha’s eyes light up. 

“You do?” she asks, smile growing even wider on her face and her book is now entirely forgotten. Tim nods. 

“Yeah, that’s kind of . . . it’s kind of how I met Bruce,” Tim says. There’s a question in Martha’s eyes that she wants to ask but she bites her lip. 

Tim tilts his head at the inquiry, and she catches his gaze. For the first time since he met her, she looks nervous. 

“You can ask me about him,” Tim says softly. “I mean – if you want to,” he stumbles a bit. Martha’s soft smile has gotten sad. 

“What does _he_ like to do?” she finally says, voice quiet. 

It’s about the hardest question Tim’s ever been asked. What does Bruce _like_ to do? Does he like Wayne Enterprise? Tim is pretty sure Bruce likes helping people. Likes helping Gotham. But sitting in board meetings and looking over stock portfolios? Bruce was glad to leave that to Lucius. 

Tim isn’t even sure Bruce likes being Batman. He still remembers those early days of his Robin career, after Bruce had his back broken and left the city in Jean Paul Valley’s ultimately insane hands, when he had considered, for a real moment, hanging up the cowl. And Tim remembers him being . . . happy. 

“He travels a lot,” Tim says. “He knows something about _everything_. I’ve only beat him at chess five times in my life and I’m still pretty sure he let me win three of those. He likes art. He goes to the ballet with Cass. He takes Damian to volunteer at the animal shelter. He makes sure to go the circus with Dick whenever it comes to town. When he watches a movie, he always falls asleep before the end.” Tim glances around the study. “Sometimes, he just sits in this room and reads.” 

There are tears in Martha’s eyes and Tim trails off, closing his throat and wishing he could take the words back, suddenly worried he’s said something wrong. But Martha smiles. 

A ding on the tablet makes both of them jump and Tim grabs for the device, unable to hold under Martha’s soft gaze for any longer. 

Tim lets out a sigh, small smile growing on his face and then falling, realizing the implications. 

The code ran all the way through. He fixed the multiverse gun. 

They were going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually did a lot of research to see if Bruce does have some reoccurring hobby, but whenever he isn't doing Batman/WE stuff, what he does is generally pretty varied and probably left to the creativity of the writers and artists.


	13. The Partition

“Tim, I swear to god, if you touch those cucumbers again, I will remove your fingers.” Somehow, Jason’s threat, raised knife and all, is severely undercut by the pale blue apron, sunflowers sprouting at the hem, that Alfred insisted the older boy wear, loosely tied around his waist while Jason sliced vegetables for a pile of spinach Tim knew would eventually become a salad. 

A grin grows on Tim’s face as his fingers dart out, plucking a stray carrot that had fallen from the cutting board and popping it in his mouth with an innocent smile. 

Jason’s growl is enough to make Alfred call, without turning around, “Master Timothy,” in a tone enough to admonish the younger boy. Tim’s cheeks redden. 

Jason’s smug grin does not escape Tim’s notice and the younger boy rolls his eyes while Martha watches the situation with mock ire. 

“Ten years it took me to get you to relinquish exclusive control of that teapot,” Martha starts, eyes on Alfred and voice somewhere between truly surprised and quietly amused. “And yet, thirty-five years and you still have never let me help you with dinner.” 

Alfred turns this time, eyebrow cocked. 

“ _’Just helping with the salad’_ ,” Martha grumbles under her breath, shaking her head. 

Martha stares at Alfred for another moment before turning to Jason and raising an eyebrow of her own. “You will tell me your secret,” she says seriously. Jason actually smiles. 

Tim helps set the table with Martha, listening as she tells Jason about a small bookstore in Germany, the chatter washing over him. There’s a rhythm he’s slipped into, unsure exactly of when it occurred, but now he’s in freefall, watching Jason conspire with Alfred and laugh with Martha, and threaten to remove his appendages (although the latter actually feels familiar). Tim has let himself to be lulled into something and the jerk awake to reality has come sudden and striking. 

And he’d seen it in Jason too, for the briefest moment when Tim pulled him aside before dinner and told him about the multiverse gun. Tim still had to run the simulation through at least a second time for safety (Luthor’s tech was _just_ dangerous enough that he might run it through a third time; he _really_ didn’t want to get stuck _between_ universes). He still needed to make sure the results were correct, reassemble the open circuitry, and attach the repaired outer casing, but as soon as the words “it’s fixed” left Tim’s mouth, the younger boy had seen Jason’s smile falter. Recovering quickly, Jason had simply nodded, a wistful look crossing his face and, as if to play off the earlier moment of weakness, Jason joked that he had better enjoy Alfred’s cooking while he still could. 

The comment grated Tim but before the he could wrap his mind around why, Jason had disappeared into the kitchen, apparently to help Alfred make dinner, though how he had managed that task was still a mystery. 

Even when Thomas got home and Alfred had banished them all, even Jason, from the kitchen and laid out dinner, chicken pasta, Tim wasn’t quite ready to let the remark go. He bites his tongue the entirety of dinner, listening to Thomas tell Martha some joke that Tim hadn’t listened to the build up to, but still gave a wry smile when it ended with “and the surgeon looks at him and says, ‘can you adjust that light for me?’” Jason takes pity on Thomas as well with a dry laugh while Martha stares expectantly at her husband, almost waiting for more to the story. An amused light dances in her eyes. 

In the moment between Martha’s silent teasing and Thomas’ growing realization of the joke, mock indignation mounting on his face, the doorbell rings. 

Martha turns and frowns in the direction of the foyer. “Two people in one day?” she asks to no one in particular. Alfred slips out of the kitchen where he had been presumably cleaning up, determinedly not persuaded this time to skimp on his duties, and crosses into the foyer to answer the door. 

Martha’s curious gaze follows him before it turns to Thomas, a frown of his own creasing his features. 

Tim can hear Alfred pull the door open in the foyer and Thomas is already turning away, mouth opening to say something to Martha, who looks less willing to let the mystery slide, when Alfred’s voice suddenly raises in anger. 

“This is a bad time, perhaps if you had _called_ – “ 

“I _did_ call,” a familiar voice responds, and Tim’s head snaps up. In the corner of his eye he sees Thomas leap to his feet and Martha still. “Or I tried to. Please, Alfred, just let me in. Philadelphia isn’t close and I’m exhausted. I just – “ Thomas is across and out of the room faster than Tim can blink 

“Lee?” Thomas asks, caught somewhere between surprise and anger and Jason glances back at Tim now, a question that Tim has no answers to on his face. “What are you doing here?” Thomas’ voice is stiff and formal now and Martha, beside Tim, bites her lip. 

The movement makes Tim turn to the older woman, jaw tense and body rigid in a way that is entirely unlike her. 

In the foyer, Tim can hear Leslie Tompkins sigh. 

“I’m not here to fight Thomas.” Tim frowns at that, glancing at Martha whose face has gone white. She holds her wrists in her hands and twists them in a way that almost looks painful to Tim. 

“Then why are you here, Lee?” Thomas’ voice is hard. Angry, and Tim is back in Jason’s hospital room with Almost-Bruce yelling at him. 

The anger in Almost-Bruce’s voice and the weariness of Leslie’s explanations are eerily familiar to Tim. _Too_ familiar. He’s listening to the pair fight about Stephanie and Africa, trust and kids in capes but it’s all wrong because that fight is a universe away and Leslie Tompkins and Thomas Wayne were supposed to be friends. 

And Martha is rubbing her wrists, her warm face ghostly and calming features tense. 

“I’ve just driven four hours to get here, Thomas. Please, can you just – can you invite me in?” Leslie asks, weary voice nervous. 

Tim eyebrows are pulling together and the gears in his brain are clicking to life, but he doesn’t have time to process everything before Thomas says, 

“No, Lee. We have company.” 

“Company?” Leslie’s voice has taken a hard edge too. “Thomas you better not mean those boys.” And Tim is out of his seat now, stomach twisting, because _there's no way she should_ know - Jason jumps up too at the movement, watching Tim as his mind races. Footsteps grow louder despite the exclamation of frustration by Thomas and before Tim can think what to do, Leslie Tompkins rounds the archway into the dining room. 

She looks exactly how Tim remembers her. But tired. Lines on her face deeper and more pronounced. Or maybe it is just that her frown is more severe because it grows when she takes in the scene in front of her and her expression darkens with fury. She spins on Thomas. 

“You can’t just – “ Thomas starts angrily. 

“What are _they_ doing here, Thomas?” Leslie asks, gesturing angrily to where Jason and Tim stand around the table. “Have you lost your damn mind? You left them in here alone with Martha?” 

Thomas face hardens dangerously, and he’s never looked more like Bruce. “You lost your right question who we keep company with.” 

Leslie pales a little at that but after a moment her face darkens once again with fury and when she speaks, her tone has gone cold. “Clearly, I have to if you’re letting terrorists share your dinner table.” 

Thomas snorts and it’s a cruel sound. “You’re one to talk,” he spits, and Tim is back in Jason’s hospital room scrambling for a plan and trying to find what looks out of place among the vast medical equipment. 

Finally, _blessedly_ , Tim jolts into action. 

“Do you have a phone on you?’ Tim breaks in, looking at Leslie whose glare dissipates into wide, shocked eyes, seeming surprised he even spoke. Tim rounds the table quickly. “And your jacket,” he adds, after a second thought. “Take it off.” 

“Like hell – “ Leslie starts but Jason cuts in. 

“Tim, what’s wrong?” he asks, voice hard, picking up on the urgency, but not yet the cause of it. 

Tim looks at Leslie. “Did Hush tell you to come here?” he asks bluntly, and Leslie takes a step back, blinking in surprise. 

“Hush?” 

“Thomas Elliot,” Tim nearly growls, and Leslie finally pulls her phone from her pocket. 

“Tommy – he. No, he just – “Leslie cuts herself off and Tim takes her phone from her hands and flips it over, prying off the back. “Thomas,” Leslie starts, turning to the older man but he’s watching Tim now, brow scrunched in worry. 

“Jacket, lady,” Jason says stepping forward and Leslie actually complies. Tim sees it. Forgoing delicacy, Tim rips out the small listening device embedded near the phone battery and places it on the dining room table. 

“Under the collar, sneaky bastard,” Jason says placing a second device next to the first. Tim picks up an ornate candle stick and crushes both in two fluid motions. 

“Chances we got all of them?” Jason asks and Tim spins to Leslie, all anger leaving her body and staring at the boys with wide eyes. Tim glances at the two bugs. 

“Minimal at best,” Tim’s voice is tight. Jason slips from the room. 

“Tommy didn’t _tell_ me to come here,” Leslie says, words rushing from her mouth. “He said . . . he just said – “ 

“You're still _speaking_ with him?” Thomas cuts in angrily. Leslie gestures frustratedly. 

“No! He just - he _called_ me, Thomas. He was reaching out. I just thought – “ Leslie cuts herself off this time. 

Jason runs back into the doorway, expression grim. If it is possible, Tim’s stomach drops even more. 

“Tim, there are assassins on the lawn.” 

  


* * *

  


Jason watches as Tim’s face hardens in a moment, slipping into the mask of Red Robin as easily at Jason steps back into the boots of the Red Hood. 

Now if only he had a goddamn weapon. 

Tim curses. “League?” he asks. Jason gives a curt nod. 

“Whatever that means in this world,” he says because whatever the hell Ra’s al Ghul’s League of Assassins is doing with Hush is beyond Jason and part of him – most of him – doesn’t want to know. 

Tim seems to read Jason’s mind, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. We know what Hush wants,” he says and he’s right. Whatever stake Ra’s has in this, whatever Hush said to him to get his help, they know what Hush is after. Or at least they have a pretty damn good idea. 

“I kind of feel like this is an overreaction,” Jason says, voice light enough that the comment doesn’t sound like a whine and Tim’s lips twitch. 

“Elliot isn’t one to underestimate an opponent twice.” Tim’s voice is cold and clipped, the tone something Jason is familiar with. It’s from the rooftops of Gotham and the dim light of the Cave. It’s Red Robin’s voice and Jason sees Martha and Thomas staring at Tim like he’s turned into a different person. 

And hasn’t he? 

“Where is it?” Jason asks, his own voice hard and terse and he’s already glancing around the room, deciding what will make the best weapon. He’s partial to candle sticks, if he could use them like escrima sticks but he has a feeling they won’t hold up long in a fight. That leaves the China, which Jason already feels preemptively bad about breaking, or the lamp in the corner. 

“Upstairs, my room. How many?” Tim asks giving Leslie’s dismantled phone and jacket back to her. 

“Couple dozen,” Jason says, truly eyeing the lamp now. He glances back at Tim. “Twelve each?” he asks, yanking the pole from its stand and unscrewing the glass top and bulb. He wasn’t about the break the lamp in front of _Alfred_. He’s not an animal. He tosses the makeshift bo staff at Tim, who catches it. 

Tim cocks an eyebrow. “Afraid of a little competition?” Tim asks with a small smile and, God, Jason has _missed_ this. 

At the thought, Jason’s eyes dart over to the entryway to the dining room and under the archway, Martha, Thomas and Leslie stare at the two boys. 

Leslie’s face is etched with horror, her eyes bordering on anger and mouth set in a hard line. Thomas’ face draws wide with confusion and he watches Jason with a wariness he hadn’t had before. Martha still looks pale and she holds her arms across her chest, her curious eyes turning a haunted look. Jason gives a small wince. 

Tim follows his gaze. “We need to get them to safety.” Jason nods. 

“You got a place in mind, Red?” 

“The dry well – “ 

“Hold on,” Thomas voice cuts Tim off loudly and the older man blinks in surprise like he himself is shocked he spoke. Tim and Jason both turn to Thomas, who gathers himself quickly. 

“What the _hell_ is going on?” he asks, voice remarkably steady. 

Before Jason can answer there is the cocking of a shotgun behind him. Jason hand closes around the candle Tim used to crush Hush’s bugs, spinning in the same instant, ready to try his escrima stick theory when Tim’s hand catches his wrist. 

Alfred stands at the other door, long-gun in hand. The butler raises a single eyebrow at Jason’s reaction. 

“Thomas, call Commissioner Gordon and tell him you’re hiding in the dry well on the south side of the property. He needs to send a dozen cars and have them blast sirens and lights all the way up the drive,” Tim says, dropping Jason’s hand. “If this Ra’s is anything like ours, he’ll have standing orders for his assassins to scram at the first sign of local police.” 

“I’m sorry his _what_?” Thomas asks, voice caught somewhere between incredulous and scared. Tim seems to latch onto the later and turns toward the older man, voice going soft and eyes transparent. 

“Thomas,” Tim says, and he actually reaches out and touches the older man’s arm. “Do you trust us?” He asks and honestly, Jason has no idea what the answer to that question will be until Thomas immediately replies, 

“Yes.” 

Tim gives a small smile and glances over at Martha, who is still uncharacteristically pale and quiet. Tim’s eyes flicker over to Jason and Jason takes the cue, stepping closer to Martha and reaching out with his own hand. Martha turns to him at the touch, eyes wide. 

“It’s going to be okay. We’ll make sure you guys are safe,” he says and Martha blinks, some of the color returning to her face and her eyes stir back to life. 

She manages a small smile. “What about you two?” she asks, voice stabilizing with each word. “ _You_ should be safe,” she says. Jason offers a wry smile. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. He ends up picking up both candle sticks. It’s better than nothing. “We will be.” 

Martha’s eyes flicker between the two of them and he has no idea what could possibly be going through her brain at the moment but all she does is give a small smile and whisper, “Yes. I suppose you will be.” 

“The dry well outside,” Tim repeats, breaking the tension of the moment and Jason turns back toward the younger boy. “There’s an entrance to the Cave inside. They’ll be safe there until Commissioner Gordon arrives. I can get them there, but we’ll need to distract the assassins on the lawn.” 

“Distractions,” Jason says, grinning widely. “My specialty.” 

“Jason,” Tim warns. Jason’s grin doesn’t falter, and he turns to Thomas. 

“How attached are you to the gazebo out back?” 

In the corner of Jason’s eye, he can see Martha smiling. “I’ve always wanted to redo the back patio.” 

It isn’t ten minutes before the gazebo is entirely engulfed in flames. To be completely fair to Martha, it _was_ a little outdated. Jason can’t see Tim, Martha, Thomas, Alfred, or Leslie as they make their way along the far side of the house toward the well, but he has to remind himself that’s a good thing. Tim will get them to safety and the two can fall back toward the house, deal with the remaining assassins and hopefully or unhopefully, Jason isn’t quite sure yet, find whatever hole Tommy Elliot will crawl out from. 

Jason already ran across five assassins on the way to the back patio, costing him both of his candle sticks, though none yet have breached the interior of the Manor. Instead, they seemed to be circling the house like vultures, likely awaiting an order. 

And Jason knows whose order it will be. But there’s been no sign of Thomas Elliot. 

In the corner of Jason’s vision, he catches sight of another assassin, body reacting before his brain can recognize the form, ducking and spinning away from the surprise strike and twisting his leg around to force the assassin to drop back as Jason regains his feet. Movement behind him makes Jason drop low and reach back, open hand grasping thick fabric he recognizes immediately and throwing the second assassin over his head. 

Now things were getting fun. 

If the clothing wasn’t enough to confirm these were League assassins, the distinct style of training gives them away. Attack heavy and impatient, with little regard to your opponent’s skill. That’s how it was in the league. Put down or be put down. Jason’s a little _too_ familiar with the style. 

The second time the assassins attack, they fall in on him from opposite sides and Jason launches himself to his right, hitting one of the assassins in the midsection and throwing the trajectory of the other off. He only has a few seconds before the second assassin recovers and quick nerve strike and elbow to the chin knocks the man beneath him unconscious. 

Jason spins in time to catch the second assassin with a kick to the stomach as he leaps at him, his brute strength allowing the second man to be taken down just as quickly. 

By the time the gazebo’s wood has burned, small fires sputtering out on stone, Jason has downed eight more. 

At this rate, he’s going to obliterate Tim’s count, though the younger boy will probably argue it wasn’t a fair contest considering he was on stealth duty while Jason got to set the distraction. 

A win is a win. He’s pretty sure he can convince Tim the bet was wagered on a future favor, no questions asked. 

Just as Jason thinks he hears the wail of police sirens in the distance, growing closer and stronger, a shrill whistle from the house pulls his attention. _Shit._ Tim. 

Jason sprints across the lawn, leaping into the back of an assassin he sees peering through the study window. A hard elbow to the base of the neck sends the man limp in seconds and Jason barely bothers to pause before crashing through the glass. 

Alfred was _so_ going to kill him. 

Jason thinks about whistling back to try to get a better idea of where Tim was calling for help from, but he doesn’t want the younger boy to think he’s in trouble too and, dammit, communicating in the field without comms was proving to be difficult. Jason’s feet are already pulling him toward the most likely place and he’s halfway up the stairs when he confirms his guess with the loud shattering of a wooden furniture coming from Tim’s bedroom. 

Jason rips open the door. 

Tim lays in the broken remains of what Jason knows used to be a quite beautiful ornate dresser but is now little more than scrap wood. He has a gash on his cheek and a torn shirt with blood seeping through from some wound Jason can’t see. There is a gun discarded halfway between Tim and the door. The slow realization that the gun and the broken dresser and the blood mean someone else is in the room allows Jason’s brain to lock onto the second figure. Thomas Elliot struggles to stand between two broken pieces of what used to be a lamp stand, own head dripping with blood as he reaches for a second gun in his thigh holster. 

Jason’s eyes lock in on the movement and then flicker over to the gun nearly ten feet away from him. Hush’s gaze shoots to Jason and, for a moment, the two men stare at each other, waiting for the other to act. 

Tim moves first. Pushing himself from the wreckage of the dresser he lunges forward toward . . . 

He’s not going for the gun. Not the gun Jason now lurches for. The multiverse gun, wiring still exposed, lays in the middle of the floor, between the three men and Jason curses himself for not seeing it sooner. Tim grabs the circuitry carefully as to not jostle the delicate device and Jason scoops the spare gun off the floor, watching Hush from the corner of his vision, expecting the man the raise his gun on Jason. 

He doesn’t. Hush lunges forward as Tim grabs the multiverse device, gun out but lowered by his side. 

Then, three things happen at once. 

Hush’s body slams into Tim, sending the multiverse device roughly crashing to the floor. A gun goes off. 

And Jason’s vision explodes in a familiar blue light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I struggled so much with writing this chapter for some reason, sorry it is a little later than the others. 
> 
> I hope I was able to give enough hints about the differences in dynamic between Leslie and Thomas and Martha in a way that wasn't just explaining the relationships.


	14. The Protector

Bruce Wayne happens to be in the kitchen when he hears it. 

The location itself is somewhat remarkable. Nearly a week straight spent in and out of the Cave, with only Alfred’s persistent efforts bringing him into the kitchen to eat at least once a day. He was usually upstairs for no longer than a few minutes while a test or search ran through the Bat-computer. But today, he lingers. 

And he still isn’t entirely sure why. 

He was still analyzing the traces of quickly dissipated energy that briefly remained in the Bowery last Friday. The energy and an encrypted text message, the only signs that something had gone wrong five days ago when Bruce returned late from the Wayne Foundation Charity Gala and nearly missed his morning meeting. 

The day Tim disappeared. 

When Tim hadn’t shown up to the board meeting, Bruce sent Alfred to his apartment in the city, hoping more so than assuming that Tim had simply decided to catch up on sleep or had maybe been feeling under the weather. Bruce should have known better. The only way Tim would miss a board meeting, even one he had spent the better part of the week complaining about, was if he was physically incapable of going. 

Alfred reported back that not only was Tim not in his apartment, but Alfred could not find the suit he wore to the Charity Gala the night before, and he likely hadn’t been home since. 

So, it was already well into the afternoon when Bruce started worrying. 

Bruce had seen Tim slip out, in somewhat of a hurry, though by the way the younger boy had been eyeing the board members and young executives he had been forced to make small talk with for the better part of four hours, Bruce hadn’t blamed him at the time. But Bruce should have followed. Looking back, there had been something wrong. 

Barbara let him know on Monday. 

Jason was missing too. 

The encrypted text to Tim’s phone, verified by Barbara to likely be a burner used by Jason, dated only hours before the energy in the area spiked. Trying to figure out what Jason was working on at the time was near impossible. Trying to figure out what Tim was doing was proving equally unlikely. The farther Bruce dug, the less he seemed to come up with and Barbara was still trying to get inside the case files in Tim’s Nest in the city. The red herrings and security measures would be impressive to Bruce if they weren’t so frustrating. 

Bruce knew that Tim and Jason had worked together, but he hadn’t quite understood that the relationship would extend to Jason feeling comfortable enough to reach out and ask for help. Or Tim feeling comfortable enough to provide it. 

The entire situation sat in Bruce’s mind, scattered and nondescript fragments he was struggling to make shape with. 

Maybe it was frustration then, that kept him upstairs. The knowledge that what he needed now was not more analysis on the mysterious energy, likely the product of LexCorp’s quantum experimentation. Not that this discovery had done Bruce any good. The device used, according to hacked LexCorp files, was a prototype still undergoing extensive testing, and stolen before whatever data regarding how it worked could be acquired. 

Maybe it was logic then, that kept him upstairs. The walls of the cave and the glow of the Bat-computer becoming too familiar to continue to sharpen his mind on. He needed new thoughts, and thus, a new environment. 

Maybe it was fear. 

It is definitely fear that jolts through him late Wednesday evening when, while pushing around the pasta on his plate, Bruce Wayne hears a gunshot echo through the house. 

It takes him a crucial moment to track the sound – coming from the second floor. He’s numb, even as he shoots out of the kitchen and races upstairs, nothing more on than a thin cotton t-shirt and jeans. 

And the part of Bruce’s brain that says _caution_ and _wait_ is overridden by the boy who saw his parents get shot in the alley and sometimes he can still hear that gunshot, different from the gunfire he hears on the streets of Gotham now, muffled by the cowl. He hears that gunshot in his dreams, and it startles him awake, so now when he hears that gunshot, in this very house at this very moment, it startles him into action. 

And the gunshot is loud and vibrant and makes his nose fill with gun powder. 

Commotion from the empty wing of the house pulls his feet in that direction and the clicking of a safety sliding in release has Bruce lowering his shoulder and slamming it through the door of an empty room in a hall he never uses. 

Bruce pushes through the doorway. The first thing he sees in the gun. A gun pressed to the downcast head of a dark form; legs spread behind him at an awkward angle, unmoving. Motionless, probably because of the blood spilling from an unencumbered wound on the boy’s thigh. The boy is hunched over, gun holding him down but propped up on forearms that are caught beneath him. Frozen halfway while pushing himself up. 

It’s Tim. 

And if his heart wasn’t already tight, it would squeeze even more. Jason holds a gun of his own, on one knee, barrel pointing at the man towering over Tim and absolute death in his expression. His finger is tight on the trigger. 

Bruce doesn’t recognize the man right away. That’s not entirely true. He recognizes parts. His nose. His shoulders. The slope of his jaw. But they are pieces of different jigsaw puzzles, slammed together to make an entirely unrecognizable picture. 

The man turns to Bruce as he flies through the door and his eyes. . . 

Bruce stills. Thomas Elliot throws his head back and laughs. 

“ _The secret to humor is surprise_ ,” Tommy says when he calms down, grin stretching across his features in a familiar way. It’s definitely Hush’s smile, arrogant, knowing, and with enough madness to send shivers down Bruce’s spine. 

“Hello, Bruce.” 

“Hey,” Jason snaps. “Why don’t you worry about the asshole who has a gun trained on you?” Jason’s voice is cold an emotionless but the way he squares his shoulders and the defiant look in his eyes reminds Bruce of a boy ripping tires off the Batmobile. Bruce’s heart tightens when Tommy’s eyes flicker back over to Jason. 

“Tommy,” Bruce says, hoping to redraw the man’s attention. Jason is tense and Tim, perfectly still on the floor. No – Tim’s arms are moving beneath him, and Bruce forces his gaze away as to not draw attention to the movement. He wants to snap at Tim to stay still. 

Bruce tries to take a step forward. Tommy’s hand tightens on the gun and pushes harder on Tim’s head. The boy freezes. 

“Another step and I pull the trigger, Bruce,” Tommy says casually, like the two are discussing chess strategy or the weather. 

“No one has to die today,” Bruce says, voice a forced calm. He’s suddenly very glad that he bartered with Alfred as a condition of him coming upstairs that the older man would remain in the Cave and finish monitoring the analysis of the Bowery energy. 

It was looking like his multiverse theory was accurate. 

Tommy’s grin has only grown. “Is that so, Bruce? Is that what you tell yourself?” He laughs again. “God, you look so much like him. Even the eyes.” Bruce holds under Tommy’s manic gaze, but he doesn’t know what the man is talking about, so he doesn’t respond. 

“But there is some of her in there too,” Tommy muses after a moment, studying Bruce hard. Jason tenses. 

“Shut the hell up,” Jason growls. Bruce tries to keep his face impassive, but his expression must give away some confusion and Tommy laughs again. 

“Oh, I have to wonder what it was like for you. Orphaned at twelve in some back street because your father thought it was a smart idea to walk down an alley in the crime capital of the world adorned in Gotham’s finest. But then again, Thomas always was an arrogant bastard, wasn’t he?” 

Bruce goes rigid. Tommy’s smile only grows. 

“Tell me, Bruce,” Tommy’s hand is tight again on the gun that presses against Tim’s skull and the boy’s head sags now, likely from blood loss and his arms move again, shifting beneath him, maybe to readjust his position. “Why shouldn’t I put a bullet in his brain? Watch a part of you die, like I did all those years ago when your father saved my mother?” 

“No, that’s not going to happen,” Bruce’s voice is rough and graveled. 

Tommy looks thoughtfully. “You always liked games, Bruce.” Jason is a statute in the corner of Bruce’s eye but if he can just keep Tommy focused and talking to him – “I thought I taught you that to stop your opponent, you had to _think_ like your opponent. So, Bruce, what do you _think_? Are you going to kill me before I kill him?” Tommy asks, tone still annoyingly casual. 

“No one is going to die today,” Bruce says and Tommy snorts. Tim is shifting again beneath the gun and Bruce has to force his gaze away. 

“God, you _are_ just like him, aren’t you?” Tommy sneers, turning more toward Bruce as he talks. “You’re sense of duty is pathetic, Bruce. How many lives has it cost in this universe?” He smiles, like he’s about to tell the punchline to a joke. “I’ll tell you this: it’s going to cost you three today.” 

“One of those is going to be yours if you don’t _shut up_ ,” Jason says, voice hard. His gun doesn’t waiver as it points to Tommy’s head, but he can’t risk pulling the trigger with Tommy’s barrel still pressed against Tim’s skull. 

“Jason,” Bruce warns sharply, trying to inch forward more. It’s pointless to outrun a bullet, but if he can just get close enough. . . 

Another laugh bursts from Tommy and Bruce risks another inch closer. He’s not moving quick enough. He has to distract Tommy more. 

“What is this? Your sense of duty? Your sense of justice? How many people have been pawns in that game, Bruce?” Tommy turns even more toward him. “Careful, Bruce. You’re playing a game right now. And when it ends, you can ask yourself this: who really killed them? Whose fault are their deaths?” 

Bruce can see the barrel of Jason’s gun shaking but he can’t focus on that. He meets Tommy’s eyes. 

“The fault is murderers like yourself,” Bruce replies coolly. _Just a little closer_ , he thinks. 

“Murderer,” Tommy actually smiles. Then, he shrugs. “ _We are what we repeatedly do_.” 

Tommy leans away from Tim, who shifts at the release. 

“Never leave your most important piece unguarded, Bruce.” 

And the gun raises away from Tim’s head and on the heels of the relief that floods through his body comes a spark of fear because he is too far away and all that stands between him and a lead bullet is thin cotton. But the barrel is moving away from Tim’s head and – 

Jason tenses, lifting something from the ground – a gun. 

“No!” Bruce lunges forward and it seems to happen in slow motion, he watches as Jason pulls the trigger at point blank range, trained on Tommy Elliot’s head and – 

A stream of blue light erupts from the barrel and Tommy Elliot disappears in a flash before his eyes. Jason drops the gun – the real gun, held tightly in his other hand – to the floor with a thud. 

Tim groans and falls the rest of the way to the ground. Jason looks at the second gun in his hands, which now Bruce can tell is not a handgun, but rather a device riddled with unfamiliar tech. 

“Timmy, please tell me I did not just send Hush back to his own universe?” 

Tim huffs on the floor, finally twisting to apply pressure to his wound but clearly suffering from the blood loss. “It’s like you don’t know me at all, Jay.” 

Jason raises an eyebrow and kneels next to Tim, swatting away Tim’s fumbling fingers and wrapping his hands around the thigh wound. “Where is he then?” 

Tim grimaces and leans back. “He’s . . . caught in the middle of something right now. We’ll get him later.” Jason huffs and then finally turns to Bruce, still frozen in the doorway. 

“Way to have some faith old man,” Jason says dryly. “Think you could get Alfie or someone on the phone to stitch up the kid here? And maybe some towels too, unless you enjoy blood stains on the carpet?” 

Tim’s eyes are fluttering closed and Bruce finally jolts into action, grabbing towels from the spare closet in the hall. 

He hears Jason’s snapping fingers from the room, and he sends a message down to Alfred to prep the med bay. 

“You know, usually, _Timothy_ , having a gun pressed to your head means don’t fucking move,” Jason snaps as Bruce comes back into the room. Tim lets out a small weak laugh. 

“I thought you might appreciate a less lethal weapon.” 

Jason grumbles under his breath, gabbing a towel and wrapping it tightly around Tim’s leg. The younger boy hisses at the pressure. 

“Shit,” Jason says, swaying a bit from the movement and reaching a hand to the floor to steady himself. 

“I got him,” Bruce says, reaching under Tim so he can carry him down to the Cave. Tim tenses suddenly in his arms. 

“Jason?” Tim asks, voice a little distant but sharp enough that Bruce’s eyes follow Tim’s gaze. Blood stains Jason’s midsection. 

Jason looks down as well. 

“Well, fuck,” he says and slumps to the floor. 

  


* * *

  


Jason wakes up to the familiar sight of stalagmites, the steady beat of a heart monitor, and the feeling of stitches pulling on his lower chest as he takes deep breaths. 

_No one is going to die today._

Jason’s thoughts feel heavy in his mind, struggling to be pulled to the surface and the lack of control sends waves of panic through him. 

_Your sense of duty? Your sense of justice?_

Jason’s memory of the past few hours is a jumbled haze and he can’t put a voice to these words. These words that haunt him. Sometimes it’s his voice who whispers them. 

_Why shouldn’t I put a bullet in his brain?_

Sometimes it’s Bruce’s. 

_It’s the fault of murderers like yourself._

Words are echoing in Jason’s skull and he just wants them to _shut up_. To stop for just a moment so he can process them. _Think._

_How many lives has it cost?_

Jason can feel his fingers twitching at his side and he struggles to hold onto the sensation of purposeful movement. While he logically knows the haze at the edge of his mind is from pain medication, he struggles to break through it. 

_Who really killed them?_

Jason gasps, sitting bolt upright. His vision swims at the sudden movement, his head heavy and stomach nauseous, but the last of the haze falls away from Jason’s mind and he pants in relief, gripping the cool metal of a medical bay bed beneath him to ground himself. 

A surprised shout, too polite to be a curse, and the clatter of metal make Jason spin around. It takes a moment for Jason’s eyes to catch up with his movements. 

“Really, Master Jason,” Alfred Pennyworth’s voice has the hint of a frown Jason knows plays on his face as he bends over and picks up the dropped medical supplies. “You could do well to give an old man some warning,” he says and when Alfred stands there is a familiar fondness in his eyes that makes Jason’s stomach twist with longing. 

He meets the butler’s gaze, mouth gaping open like a fish for a moment before he can get a handle on the whiplash of emotions. 

“Old, Alfie? You don’t look a day over seventy.” 

A mock frown is shot his way, but there’s something else in Alfred’s eyes. Curiosity. Surprise. It takes a moment for Jason to realize there is a grin on his face but as he does so, Alfred’s gaze softens and a smile of his own plays at the butler’s lips. 

“It is good to see you,” Alfred says, voice soft and Jason’s joy crashed into guilt at once. It must have shown on his expression because Alfred reaches out and grabs his arm firmly. “None of that,” he says sternly, and he gives Jason’s arm an affectionate squeeze. 

“Alfred, I – “ 

Alfred cuts him off with a pat on his arm and a genial smile. “It truly is good to see you, Master Jason.” The words do nothing to stifle the pit of guilt growing in his stomach. On the heels of the guilt, reality comes crashing back on Jason and he glances around the cave wearily. 

_It’s the fault of murderers like yourself._

“Where –“Jason starts. 

“Jason?” A voice asks and for a second, Jason thinks it’s Thomas. Almost expects the older man to turn the corner, medical bag in tow, a worried and wary expression etched on his aging features. But Thomas Wayne is in a different Cave. Or maybe not. Commissioner Gordon probably already arrived. Hush was gone. Tim – 

“Where’s Tim?” Jason asks, panic now setting in as he glances around and notices the younger boy is nowhere to be seen. He barely even registers as Bruce rounds the corner into the medical bay, a worried look of his own barely seeping through the ever-present mask of calm. 

“He’s fine,” Bruce says, even as Alfred reaches out to steady Jason as he tries to push himself off the cot. 

“Careful, Master Jason,” Alfred says, and Jason swings his legs over the side. Alfred doesn’t stop him, but Jason pauses before pushing himself off the bed. 

“He’s resting in the other medical bay,” Bruce says and Jason glances over at him now as he warily approaches. He really does look like Thomas, cowl off and dressed in an old college t-shirt and jeans. There are bags he doesn’t try to hide under his eyes and a pallor to his skin that reeks of worry. Right. Tim. 

“He’s okay, though?” Jason asks again, taking note of the weariness of Bruce’s body. Bruce stares at him with those blue eyes and unreadable expression. Jason can already feel the anger growing in the pit of his stomach. 

“He’s fine, Jason,” Bruce says, voice quiet. Jason narrows his eyes. 

“I swear to God, if you’re lying,” Jason starts but Bruce’s tired sigh interrupts him. 

“Jason, Tim is fine. A little banged up but the bullet missed the artery and was through and through. He’s fine. Just resting,” Bruce says, and something flickers on his face that Jason can’t read. Maybe he could have at one point but he’s out of practice now and still reeling from everything in the past day. Bruce hesitates and Jason watches the tight pinch of his eyes, like the way Tim might hide tension, and Jason pauses. _Is Bruce nervous?_

“I was actually worried about you,” Bruce says, voice careful in a way that has Jason’s hackles rising. 

Jason opens his mouth, sarcasm like bile on his tongue, but Bruce’s eyes soften when they meet his and for a second, it’s Thomas standing there, the ghost of a smile on his familiar features. Jason wants to make a joke about space for a second memorial case, but he can’t force the quip passed his lips. 

Bruce watches him, eyebrow pinched like they are already deep into an argument. But they aren’t. 

Jason closes his mouth. It feels dry. 

“Well, I better get going. Tell the kid not to die,” Jason says, voice feeling distant. He pushes himself off the cot. “It would be frankly embarrassing to go out like that,” the joke falls flat even for him and Jason can’t look at Bruce. 

Bruce’s frown deepens. “Jason – “ he starts. 

“Don’t,” Jason warns in a low voice. Bruce pauses but continues. 

“I think – “ he starts again. 

“Then don’t think,” Jason snaps, anger brewing inside him dangerously. He needs to get out of here. Out of this Cave. Bruce is watching him carefully, eyes scrutinizing every twitching muscle. Jason’s fingers tap his empty waist and for the first time in days, he longs for the cool metal of a gun. He needs something between him and Bruce. A barrier or a lever to pull that will put the conversation – the fight – back on his terms. But he feels naked. 

Exposed. 

He needs to get out of here. 

Bruce must read something truly desperate in his eyes because he takes a step back and inclines his head. Jason doesn’t wait another second, blowing past Bruce and his goddamn inscrutable expression and races toward the hanger in the Cave. 

For a brief moment, he considers jacking a Batmobile, but that feels too sentimental and he veers away from the dark vehicles. 

He stalks up to Tim’s Red Robin bike. 

The kid did owe him. 

Quiet footsteps sound from behind Jason and even as he tenses, he knows they can’t belong to Bruce. 

Jason turns to see Alfred Pennyworth approaching, keys splaying on a silver platter like he was serving tea. Some of the tension eases unbiddenly from Jason’s shoulders. 

The butler smiles. “You don’t have to leave, Master Jason,” Alfred says, voice soft but understanding. Even as the older man speaks the words, Jason can tell the butler knows what his response will be. 

“Yes, I do,” Jason spits anyways. He grabs the keys and slides onto Tim’s bike. He gives one last look back at the Cave. 

“ _We are what we repeatedly do_ ,” Jason quotes bitterly. Alfred frowns at that and Jason knocks the kickstand up. He’s about to start the engine when Alfred finally speaks. 

“I believe it was Aristotle who said, _‘happiness depends upon ourselves,’_ ” the butler replies with a soft smile. Jason’s chest tightens and he can’t meet Alfred’s eyes. Words stick in Jason’s throat even as Alfred waits there for a response. Jason turns the keys and fills the Cave air with deafening sounds as the engine springs to life. 

Jason slams down on the gas and peels out of the Cave, heartbeat pounding in his ears louder than the roar of the bike beneath him. He lets the cool morning air of Gotham whip against his face and he doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter will follow Tim, but also check in with Martha and Thomas. Again, apologies for the delay in update, I was hiking national parks the last week and rarely had internet access.
> 
> Also, much of Tommy's dialog is in reference to comics. _Batman: Gotham Knights_ was a huge inspiration. It follows much of Hush's dialog involving accusations to Bruce's "method." I wanted to include this as a mirror to Jason's own feelings on the matter, as I always felt they paralleled quite well. I sort of imagine this Hush as having 'tested' Thomas' resolve regarding the 'do no harm' rule of doctors because he saved his mother. Part of the backstory to the other universe that I hinted at, but clearly never spelled out. This Hush has obviously never had a confrontation like this with Bruce before, which is how I rationalized stealing some of the dialog. 
> 
> One last chapter!!


	15. The Postlude

Tim forces himself to wait a full week. 

He was walking a fine line. There was space and there was _too much_ space. But Alfred insisted he wait, and Tim was liable to defer to the butler’s judgement in this situation. 

He wasn’t sure he could consider himself objective in the matter anymore. 

The room is dark when Tim finally cracks the security to Jason’s safehouse in lower Gotham, slipping into the warm room, relative only to the chilly late night air that sneaks inside during the brief moment Tim has the window open, leaving the room a strange mixture of warm and cool once he slams the pane down. 

He makes his way into what only the most generous realtor would call a kitchen and puts the leftovers Alfred gave him into the fridge, trying not to roll his eyes when he sees the pitiful contents: an assorted mix of domestic beers and a single box of Thin Mints. 

Tim nods off on the couch where he spends the next few hours sprawled on lumpy cotton until the lock on the door finally pops free and a dark figure stumbles into the room. 

Tim sits up. 

The barrel of a gun is pointed at his face. 

Tim raises an eyebrow, meeting Jason’s death gaze and refusing to go cross-eyed staring down the weapon. A beat of silence. 

“How the hell did you get in here?” Jason asks, trying to make his voice hard. Tim just raises another eyebrow, carefully watching the way Jason stiffly holds his free arm, bent and close to his chest. Jason follows his gaze, sighs dramatically, and finally lowers his gun, placing it back in his thigh holster. 

“Just some bruised ribs,” Jason says, walking over to the only horizontal surface in the room, a small worn table that Tim thinks Jason will insist is a functional eating surface. Tim had walked through the entire safehouse before collapsing on the small couch. A mattress pushed into the corner of the only other room of the apartment was the extent of the furnishings. 

It was all so wrong. The lack of food in the fridge. The dilapidated furniture. It reeks of something close to punishment, but Jason isn’t avoiding Tim’s searching gaze. Instead, he looks right into Tim’s eyes with a spark of something that takes the younger boy a second to recognize. 

It’s challenge. 

Jason _wants_ Tim to do what he is doing. Wants him making every small comparison between this shoddy apartment and a Manor in a different world. Wants Tim to see this Jason and that boy that laughed with Martha Wayne as different people and warn Tim that he is not likely to appreciate comparison. 

He wants Tim to know that things are _different_. Tim meets his stare. 

Jason stiffly removes his breastplate and unclips his belt and hip holsters, tossing them on the kitchen table and ignoring Tim’s wince as they nick the already ruined wood. He leaves the gun strapped to his thigh, the one he usually fills with lead bullets. 

“You seem more hurt than some bruised ribs,” Tim says blandly, choosing to ignore the weapon. 

“ _Fractured_ ribs,” Jason concedes with forced ease. He sees the skeptical look Tim throws his way and rolls his shoulders. “Maybe closer to the neighborhood of broken ribs.” 

“I think we are firmly courting punctured lungs here, Jason,” Tim says, worry starting to creep into his voice. Jason goes stiff at the sound. 

“Is there a reason you’re here, Replacement?” Jason asks, voice cold. 

Tim keeps his face carefully neutral, leaving a single eyebrow raised. “You stole my bike,” he says. 

Jason’s lips curve up in a small smile and his shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. “Think of it as borrowing without permission.” 

Tim lets out a small smile of his own. “You left it in the Bowery with no gas and a dead battery.” 

Jason shrugs. “And I didn’t even disable the tracker. You’re welcome.” 

Tim gives a soft laugh. He’s not too upset about the bike; he only stored a back-up in the Cave. He had a second bike in the Nest. And Jason _knew_ that. 

“You here to give me my new helmet?” Jason asks casually. 

“New helmet?” Tim repeats because he really doesn’t know where Jason is going with this one. Jason just nods. 

“I seem to recall a promise to make me a new helmet after you took advantage of an unconscious man. Hacking into my old one while I was on my death bed,” Jason shakes his head. “You have no shame, Timmy.” 

Tim blanches for a moment, tilting his head to the side in thought before remembering the conversation. Then he splutters. 

“No way. That deal was contingent on me being able to use your helmet to repair the multiverse gun. You blew your helmet up. Deals off.” 

“That wasn’t in the fine print,” Jason mock frowns. 

“It should have been under the Don’t Store C-4 on Your Head Clause,” Tim growls. 

Jason grins. “Well, lesson learned. Specify these things Timbo . . . next time.” 

“It was implicit in the agreement,” he rolls his eyes. 

Jason is shaking his head. “Nope, I don’t recall that.” 

Tim shrugs. “Of course, you don’t. You were high at the time.” 

Jason gasps. “And you took advantage of me in my weakened state.” 

Suddenly, Tim grins widely and Jason falters for a moment. “Okay, fine. You win.” 

“I do?” 

Tim nods enthusiastically. “Sure. Just send over all the specs to your helmet and I’ll get right on it.” Jason’s eyes narrow and Tim forces a brightly innocent smile across his face. 

Finally, Jason snorts. 

“What are you really doing here, Tim?” he asks, unstrapping the rest of his holsters and knives and tossing them on the table. He pulls out the kitchen chair, swings it around and leans on the back as he sits down. 

“Dropping off leftovers,” Tim forces his voice steady. “Alfred’s lasagna. It’s in the fridge.” 

Jason stills. Tim twists his fingers and he can feel the tension simmering in the air. He’s dangerously close to providing the spark that would cause the room to careen into an explosion. 

“Tim,” Jason voice is like a razor. “Drop it. We’re not there anymore.” 

Tim sighs. “It’s just leftovers, Jason.” 

Jason glances back at the refrigerator. Tim wills the tension to leech out of the room and steels himself against nerves that flicker in his chest as longing and unease flash across Jason’s face, like the older boy knows it isn’t just leftovers. 

“Yeah,” Jason says anyways. Tim lets out a small breath. It’s a start, maybe. Or something close to one. 

“Alfred’s making white bean soup next week,” Tim continues casually. Jason glances over, raising an eyebrow. 

“That sounds disgustingly healthy.” A smile twitches on his lips. 

“It is,” Tim says. Jason snorts and rolls his eyes pushing the chair back under his table and turning to the bed – a clear dismissal. Tim takes it, walking back over to the window and popping it open. The sun was breaking on the Gotham horizon. 

“But it’s also some of the best goddamn soup you’ll ever have.” 

  


* * *

  


“It’s quieter,” Alfred Pennyworth says as he pours tea out from the kettle, voice deceptively casual, like he is simply remarking on the weather. It has been warmer recently, but Martha doesn’t bring this up. Instead, she smiles. 

“It’s a louder silence though,” she says thoughtfully, like Alfred will have any idea what she is talking about. The older man only purses his lips and tilts his head to the side, regarding the observation. 

Martha isn’t sure she could explain it if she tried. 

The house echoes differently now. 

There is laughter in the hallways, sharp and sudden, a bursting chuckle taking the actor by surprise. There is a thoughtful hum and quiet questions. There are curious footsteps and soft whispered voices. Children echo in these halls. 

But they don’t haunt her. Not like Bruce used to. 

She used to see Bruce everywhere in this house. A chair he used to sit in, insisting it was comfier than its identical counterpart. The bench he once fell asleep on after sneaking away during one of his first charity galas, feigning unconsciousness as Thomas picked him up and carried him to bed. A doorframe he once leaned on, or at least she thinks he had. He must have, for her to see it so clearly. 

He was everywhere in this house and then he was nowhere, and she had loved and hated that in one breath. 

But now. Now the halls feel louder, no longer leeched of life. Oh, but Bruce wasn’t gone. That was part of it. He was still here. In the way a young man laughed with his shoulders, his whole body. In the way a boy pinched the bridge on his nose, false exasperation hiding a smile. He was in shunted eyes and angry stiff shoulders; he was in nervous smiles and steely determination. He was so _present_. 

And maybe she should wish that she could have said goodbye to them, in the way she never got to with Bruce, other than whispering it to his cooling body or a stony grave. Maybe she should wish for another moment, another story, another laugh. But it feels like that would make the silence quieter, colder and more cruel. It feels antithetical to the echoes, like it would stifle them. 

But she doesn’t know how to explain this. So, she waits until Alfred gives a slow thoughtful nod and passes her a cup of tea and accepts her ineffable observation. 

“Are you still planning on going into the city for lunch today?” Alfred asks, frowning now at the crossword he has splayed in front of him. He marks something down in blue pen. 

Martha cocks an eyebrow at the man, and she knows he is aware of the unmarked meeting she has had scribbled in her day planner for a week now and she wonders what he thinks of it. It’s easier sometimes, to forgive people for what they have done to you than for what they do to people you love. She wouldn’t lie about the lunch date she had with Leslie later, if Alfred asked outright, but he wasn’t going to ask. So, she says, 

“Good weather for it I think?” And Alfred smiles. 

“It’s been cold for so long. I’m glad it’s starting to warm.” And Martha returns the smile. 

And Alfred meets her in the city later, and she pretends not to have noticed a man doing the New York Times crossword in pen across the street. It’s been a long time, since she’s come into the city, mind and body, because one or the other was always trapped in the ethereal silence of the Manor. 

And when the sun is waning on the horizon in the distance, she almost asks Alfred to drive by an old derelict theater in a neighborhood that used to be called Park Row, but she thinks instead about the sudden burst of laughter that came with a mischievous smile and she remembers the soft curious voice of a young boy with intelligent eyes, and Martha decides the alley will sound like a television tuned to a dead channel. Instead they go home. 

She passes a bench and a doorframe, and two identical chairs and she sits in the study until Thomas comes home. And she reads. 

A few days later at dinner, Martha looks up from her plate and watches her husband recount a story from his day. “Thomas,” Martha says after a moment of quiet. “I was thinking today about refugees from Burnley and the Bowery.” 

Thomas looks up from his own meal, eyes focusing on her in a quiet confusion. Martha continues tentatively. 

“There are a lot of kids in Crime Alley who lost their parents in No Man’s Land.” She pauses, lips pursing. Thomas is nodding. 

“There are.” His voice is soft. 

She shrugs, trying to play it casual. “We have a lot of rooms,” she says simply. 

Thomas meets her gaze. There is a smile pulling at his lips. 

“We do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Vilomah** /vī(lo)mah/ _(n)_ \- against the natural order of things.
> 
> Thank you all who read this story, thank you all who enjoyed it, and especially thank you to all who commented. It means so much to read your comments and hear your feedback, I truly, truly appreciate it. 
> 
> This story was never meant to be the resolution to every problem, or even any problem. It was meant to be the beginning. The first step. I know some people may have wanted Tim, Jason, Martha and Thomas to get a better goodbye, but I always wanted it like this. I felt it was truer to life. We so rarely get goodbyes but sometimes that isn't a bad thing. We don't always need them.
> 
> Anyways, thank you all again for reading. I hope I was able to do your patience justice. 
> 
> Feel free to reach out to me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/grimmwriters) for any reason at any time!


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